Category: Uncategorized

C-PTSD, Childhood, Crime, Leadership, Pastor John Grant, Sexual Abuse, Shame, Uncategorized, United Pentecostal Church

The Aftermath

Deb M

Part 10

Over time I became attached to SD as other parts of my world fell apart. My parents were divorced, my mother was constantly struggling to keep us fed and to keep the lights on, and being in the Christian school did not turn out to be the way I thought it would be. I became a master at disassociation and I felt trapped in a life that I did not want and did not know how to escape. None of my fears about God, the devil, and hell went away during this period. I only felt more distant from grace and I feared that my sin had crossed the line into being unforgivable. Was I the reason we did not have electricity? Was my sin keeping my mother sick? I just knew I was some kind of horrible Jezabel and maybe I hadn’t fallen far from the tree. My father was a dirty cheater after all. My mother told me all about his dog-like inability to control his impulses. I was like my father in lots of ways, maybe I was a dog too. 

 Eventually, I blew the whistle. I do not know how I gained the courage to tell someone but I did. I worked for the church’s popcorn wagon. We had a little food truck that sold popcorn, soda, and fruit downtown near the state capital. The minister who baptized me ran this little operation and I would work up there a couple of days a week. It was unpaid and a part of the church’s fundraising efforts. My partner was a young woman named Shannon. She was about 19 years old and she lived with a young couple a few blocks from my house. We became friends and I trusted her. One day when we were done for the day and sitting on the curb waiting for Brother O’Neil to take us home I blurted it out. To her credit, she did not react in a surprised or horrified way. She asked me questions in an interested way which made it easier for me to tell her. It felt good to tell someone. I had been carrying around this secret for nearly two years. At this point, I had no idea what was coming. 

Shannon was one of the only adults who did not fail me in this situation. She may have only been 19 but she acted much more mature than the other adults. When she went home for the evening she discussed what I told her with Sister Cox. To her credit, Sister Cox who was a friend to me tried to do the right thing. She told Shannon to tell me that if I did not tell pastor Grant what was happening she would. At the time this sounded like a threat but now I actually believe she was trying to help me. Within the UPC this is what you do. No matter what the issue is, you take it to the pastor. No one went to the police or even talked to a mental health professional and the last thing you would do is call social services. This is the part of the story where I’m in awe of the strength that I had. After all, I was only 12 or 13. The next day I set up an appointment with pastor Grant. This took guts! I was afraid of him and I avoided the church secretary like the plague. She had always made it clear she was judging me and everyone else and I firmly believed she did not approve of me or my parents. Once John Grant came in for the day he called me to his office. There I was in the lion’s den! We were never this close and I was never alone with him. He asked why I wanted to see him and I started to explain. He stopped me and got out a small (for that time) tape recorder and started taping our conversation. The distance between us seemed enormous. John Grant is known for his ridiculous oversized desks. If you talk to any survivor of Calvary Gospel Church they will tell you about his gigantic desks. I felt like Lily Tomlin’s character Edith Ann, everything in the room was huge and I felt small in my chair. He asked me questions, very generic questions, and I answered very generically. He knew what happened but he did not ask and I did not give details. He knew enough to know SD had been molesting me for almost two years and that he had tried to have intercourse with me. Our conversation ended with John Grant telling me he would get back to me but he never did. I then left his office and took the long lonely walk back to my desk. I bore this burden alone. No one checked in on me or asked if I wanted to speak to a therapist. No one offered to pray with me or even offered a hug. It was almost like it never happened. The only proof that it ever happened came in whispers and innuendo. 

At this point I did not have much trust in adults. It took a lot of courage for me to tell anyone what happened to me. What crushes me as I write this is how strong I had to be to reach out to an adult and how thoroughly they all judged me and offered no help. The lesson I learned from this is to keep my sadness and pain to myself because no one would care or help if I shared. I received the message that I was not worthy of help. If my world was lonely and dark before now it had darker and more ominous clouds. 

The most painful fall out came from my mother who called me a little hussy and was mad at me for a long time. I’m actually not sure how she found out. I know it was not pastor Grant because she told me, “I had to find out through the grapevine!” My guess is that Shannon told her. They had developed a friendship. All I know is she picked me up from school one day furious. She did not see me as a victim; she saw me as a whore, probably because she did not see me as a child. If I was a child I would need more from her and she had too many other things to worry about. Around this time she read my diary and saw the things that I wrote about SD. She mocked me and called me names. I never wrote in a diary again until I was in my own apartment. I was not surprised by her reaction. Around this time she had also referred to me as, I won’t use the word but you’ll understand, lover because a young boy my age who rode the Sunday school bus with me had started calling the house. This made absolutely no sense to me. She was disowned by her own parents for a time because she married a Mexican so one would think she would be more understanding. She did not seem to have problems with black people except if it seemed like interracial dating might be going on. To look back on this makes me so sad. This sweet boy never tried anything with me and our interactions over the next couple of years involved him following me around like a lost puppy. We were children, after all, not even teens yet. One day a friend and I met him and his friend at the mall. He won me a little red furry heart out of the crane machine and the four of us ate pizza. To this day that memory warms my heart as one of the few happy memories of childhood associated with the church. My mother thought his friendship was a sin and I had to hide it from her, and she thought my sexual assault was at least partly my fault, and this is why I never went to her for help. 

During this time I felt completely estranged from my mother. As I grew older she became more cruel and crass when interacting with me. She would even mock me and make fun of me in embarrassing ways in front of other adults from the church. As time went on she became more and more like Jim and less and less like the mother I thought I knew. I spent almost all of my time in my room alone. She and Jim were wrapped up in their lives with each other and my father wasn’t around much. I had an old tape player/recorder, the kind you would see in schools in the ’80s. It made a kachunk sound when you closed the cover. I would listen to Amy Grant and others for hours in my room. I had to use batteries when we had no electricity and so sometimes the music would be very slow due to the batteries running low. I read a lot and thought a lot about SD and what he was doing and if he was ok. I took long bike rides alone. I moved through the world feeling a great sense of loneliness and sadness or just being numb and dissociated. 

Shannon and Jeanette (sister Cox) never treated me badly but they never offered help or went to the police. I think the assumption was that pastor Grant would deal with things. Everyone who knew about this John Grant, his wife Darlene, Jeanette, Shannon, and my mother just went on with life. My mother gave me the side-eye a lot but she never asked if I was ok or offered her support. Everyone else just went on with things but I could tell the undercurrent had changed. People were less friendly and seemed kind of standoffish at times. There was a change in the wind, things were colder now and I could feel their eyes on me. Writing this reminds me of a scene from the film Age of Innocence when Newland Archer figures out that everyone knows about his affair with Madame Olenska. “He guessed himself to have been, for months, the centre of countless silently observing eyes and patiently listening ears…” As a child, I was never really sure who knew. I knew that the pastor’s son knew because he brought it up to me in front of my peers at school. I knew that most of the younger adults knew because DD was friends with them and a husband doesn’t just disappear and no one notices. He would not be playing trumpet at the front of the church and his wife would be sitting alone. I’m sure that John Grant would have called a meeting of the elders to discuss what had happened and at that time there were around 12 couples serving as elders. As an adult almost everyone I have spoken to who is a survivor of that congregation knew something about it, most of it gossip that they were unsure about. 

Many times when young girls are abused they become promiscuous. After SD stopped abusing me I did not interact with a boy physically for about a year. It wasn’t anything big, just normal puppy love stuff. Over the years I started to become more physically involved with the boys I dated and when I was 16 I had sex for the first time. I think I was chasing the feeling of friendship and closeness I had with SD but all of these encounters only left me more hurt and disappointed. Chasing my father and my abuser would be my pattern with men even going into my adult life. Both SD and my father were often unavailable and would disappear for a period of time and then come roaring back into my life. This led me into so many relationships with unavailable males. I always felt abandoned and my self-worth sank lower and lower with each relationship. Most of my relationships involved controlling and angry men. Men who would cheat on me and sex was always something to check out of. I just went away somewhere else in my head. Probably because I was having sex with men who were distant and who were not really connected with me emotionally. I wonder if all of this could have been avoided if I had received counseling about both SD and my father. I did not have any female role models to really show me how to value myself. Every woman I knew seemed to have to grovel for male attention. I grew up under the teaching that a woman should be submissive and I internalized that to mean a man can do whatever he wants and you just have to love him until he straightens out. 

I learned the hard way that things can always get worse.. Soon after I spoke with pastor Grant I received a very unexpected phone call from SD. He spoke in a clipped way, “I have to leave town, it is not your fault.” That was it. I said nothing but held the phone for a long time after he hung up. I wasn’t super surprised that he was leaving town, I figured his wife was probably pretty upset with him. I think I was surprised by how little he gave me in the end. No apology, no remorse, and no comfort. I loved him much in the same way that I loved my mom and dad. My family had its faults but my parents always told me they loved me. Within the church telling people you loved them was common. “I just love you so much!” Bleh. I had once told SD that I loved him and his response was to say, “I know.” It was cold and at that moment it stung. I was alone again. As bad as the abuse had been, it gave me something to look forward to. An escape from my home and the constant arguing and poverty. Don’t misunderstand me, the abuse was scary and wrong but it wasn’t the whole time we were together. Remember he fed me and talked with me, or groomed me, and that part felt good. 

Soon after the phone call was our midweek service. I went and I was worried and again alone. I had no idea who knew and what people would say to me. Why my mother would allow me to go back there without an adult is beyond me. I faced it like I faced all things in my childhood, like a brave soldier. Being assaulted for two years, being heartbroken, and traumatized was no reason to miss church. No one said anything except for SD’s wife. She was waiting for me. She looked stiff and angry. She pulled me aside as soon as I walked into view and she growled in my ear, “We need to talk right after church.” I was really freaked out and how I made it through that service is beyond me. It felt like the shortest service ever.

After the service was over she found me and led me down into the basement of the church. She was in her early twenties and I was 12 or 13. She led me into one of the Sunday school rooms and turned on the light. She clearly did not see me as a victim, she saw me as an adulteress. She told me she had always believed she could trust me with her husband and that she was very hurt that I would betray her this way. She insisted that we pray for my forgiveness. Other than a quiet, “I’m sorry” I was silent during this whole encounter only being able to eek out a mumbled prayer through my tears. She, on the other hand, started to pray loudly and spoke in tongues in a way that scared me. She was having an experience but mine was completely different. She laid her hand on my shoulder and pushed me back and forth much like the women did on the night I got baptized. When her frenzied prayer ended we both silently went upstairs. She never spoke to me much after that. I had lost a friend but I really couldn’t blame her. Now when I look back on this I see her in a different light. I feel for her but what she did to me was wrong. I was a child. I know I keep repeating this but I have to for no other reason than to remind myself. 

DD has three sisters, One older and two younger. Her older sister attended church now and then but I never got the impression she was a true believer. Her younger sisters still lived at home with DD’s parents a couple of hours away when I first met them. One day I was driven out there by SD and DD. SD was already abusing me at this point and so the whole situation was pretty uncomfortable. I’m pretty sure DDs parents lived on a farm and they seemed to be pretty poor. Both SD and DD thought her sisters and I might become friends and we did. Both of her younger sisters would write me letters and we became pen pals. In those days it was all colored scented pens and stickers. I would always get excited when they came to visit or when SD would take me and other girls out for a fun day. Eventually, AD, the youngest sister, came to live with SD and DD. I don’t know the reasons why but at the time I was very excited. My friend was coming here to stay and she was planning to attend the same school. AD was always shy and quiet but friendly. Once she arrived in Madison she seemed to change. She became cold and standoffish. I was heartbroken and I could not understand, had I imagined that we were friends? To make matters worse she started hanging out with the kids who were kind of mean to me. I’m sure some of it was the age difference. She was 3 years older than me. When I would speak to SD about how sad I was about AD and I’s friendship seeming to vanish he would just smirk and act as if it was just girls being girls. He seemed to enjoy the tension between AD and I. He never tried to mediate but would actually throw us together and then laugh at our discomfort. 

This is where things take a turn for the weird and unexpected. OK yes I know that sounds funny, my whole childhood was weird and unexpected, despite that this next event shocked me. I have debated how to tell this part of the story or if I should tell it at all. I have decided to tell these events as I understand them. Some of this was told directly to me and some of it was pieced together from scraps of information I have discovered doing research. On the night of or close to it that DD pulled me down into the basement, that first night I was back at church after SD left town, I found out why SD was gone and also why AD seemed to be nowhere in sight. I was standing in the vestibule and someone whispered in my ear that SD was caught in bed with A. I cannot remember who passed this info onto me. This shook me to my core and I had this feeling that SD was not driven from the church because of me but because of AD. You’re never supposed to bring the police or social services to the church’s door. Those in authority seek to protect the church and its image at all costs. I believe they thought I was under control, but AD had parents outside the church, who knows what they might do. They might call the cops, they might bring a scandal, plus DD’s older sister had not drunk the kool-aid so she could be trouble too. This is all my opinion but it makes sense to me. I have not been able to speak to anyone who has the whole story. I have only heard bits and pieces from people who heard something or maybe spoke to DD. My 12/13-year-old self had so many feelings about this. Part of me felt abandoned. If he was going to flee, why did he leave me here with my depressed mother and impoverished life. Part of me was shocked that he was molesting my friend and I was angry thinking that he might have been the reason I lost her as a friend. I was confused, all this time he made me think that it was all about me and my impossible to resist sinful body when in fact he was obviously struggling with other impossible to resist sinful bodies. I wondered how long it had been going on, and if there were more of us. I wondered If AD knew about me. All I knew for sure is that SD and AD got out and I was left to bear the shame and stain of everything that happened. I got up the nerve to ask one of SD’s friends where he had gone. He told me that SD fled to Vegas. He was still in contact with some of the men in the church. He was seeking restoration, now I wonder if he was seeking a quickie divorce. I don’t know where AD went but I was told eventually she was allowed to go be with SD. They are married to this day. They got married after she turned 18. The church allowed SD and DD to divorce because SD committed adultery. Adultery was the only reason you could get divorced within the United Pentecostal Church. Let that sink in, adultery not pedophilia. She was 15 and I was 12 or 13 when this all blew up. Together the two of them, SD and AD pastor a church in Oconto Wisconsin. Yes, you read that right, dear readers, SD is a pastor. 

I’m not going to say much more about AD. In my eyes, she is a victim whether he married her or not. Her story is not my story to tell. I only hope she is ok. SD is not ordained through the UPC organization but he still socializes with them. It is very complex. For a while, he was pastoring a daughter work of a UPC church but now he is independent. My guess is that they would not ordain him because of his divorce and remarriage. What I do know for sure is that he has been welcomed back into fellowship with UPC ministers and members. That is very uncommon. UPC people do not associate with people outside of their organization, they are very insular, but SD is an exception. He has had UPC ministers at his church to preach which is against the rules of the UPC, but again somehow he gets by with it. On social media, he is friends with people who attend Calvary Gospel and who attended when he was molesting me. These people know what he did but they say he is forgiven and so that makes it all ok. No one talks about what he did to me in terms of child molesting, they call it adultery and so does he. To this day I have received no justice. No one from Calvary Gospel has apologized to me for not reporting the incident and for not offering me any help. When confronted they claim that they did report and have always reported but the police have no records of them ever reporting anything. I am not the only victim who had crimes against them covered up by Calvary Gospel, I’m just one of the oldest. I see myself as a test balloon. They covered up SDs crime and no harm came to the church. After my situation came many other young girls, and boys too. They were not victims of SD but of other men. SD was not an exception; he was part of a systemic problem that has infected the UPC organization. When the choice is to protect the church or the young life of a victim Calvary Gospel will always choose the church. 

My day to day life at home did not change much, my mother eventually got over it. My life at church and school changed a lot. The adults around me started to give me a knowing side-eye and I knew they were talking about me. Adults withdrew from me and I could feel the silent judgment. No one offered me help or compassion. These adults who saw me day in and day out never asked why I was so thin or so sad. I tried to make friends with the church kids and I was able to establish some friendships. Most of my friendships with peers were with other kids on the margins. Race played a big role in this. They were on the margins due to being children of color and also due to being poor. I had friends whose parents were considered more “in” but my friendship with them could only get so close. Their parents always looked at me as if I was dangerous and I wasn’t invited over for dinner or sleepovers. I never felt the same after what happened between SD and I. So many things caused me to have to grow up so fast and the abuse SD inflicted on me only sped this process up even more. It was like he threw gasoline on a raging fire. I was never the same. Now I fully understood how my mother felt at church. Silently judging eyes and smiles that seemed so forced and fake. I could be in the same room with these people but somehow there was an invisible wall between us. When I look back on it now I think that maybe they thought the sin that had come into my life through SD might be contagious. The UPC church teaches God’s forgiveness but in practice, Calvary Gospel never really forgave me for being a victim. From what I have observed they tend to have an easy time forgiving men but women are another story. Once your reputation has been ruined in some way you cannot ever be truly restored. At 12 my reputation was obliviated and no amount of hard work on God’s behalf or asking for forgiveness would ever remove the stain left by SD’s abuse. I spent my teen years striving for transcendence. To this day I would say that transcendence is a goal of mine. I set my sights on being and feeling worthy both in God’s eyes and the church’s but I never got there. It wasn’t until I was well into adulthood that I realized that only I could grant myself worthiness. My parents bear some of the blame for my feelings of worthlessness and it would be unfair to say otherwise that being said when SD decided to abuse me he set in motion a terrible storm. His acts against me caused me to seek relationships with males as an escape from the pain of my life. Those relationships always had a price and always left me alone to mend my broken heart. His actions made me feel like a Jezabel like I could never get clean or be good enough to rise above what happened between us. His actions left me alone to bear the stain of what he had done to me and his wife. He moved on to another city and I was the living reminder of what had happened. His actions caused the church to view me as damaged goods. Within these sorts of churches once you have been used by a man or even choose to be sexual and they see your purity as damaged you become something less than worthless, you become a temptress and something to be feared. 

C-PTSD, Childhood, Devil, Family, Fear, racism, Rapture, Trauma, Uncategorized, United Pentecostal Church

New Church

Deb M

Part 7 ***Trigger Warning*** Some discussion of end times material and suicidal tendencies.

One afternoon my mother was standing in the kitchen talking on the phone attached to the wall. She seemed scared. I had no idea what was going on but I understood that it wasn’t good. With tears in her eyes she explained that my father was in the hospital. He had taken some pills and we rushed to be at his side. When we arrived my mother was hysterical with worry. She asked to see him and after a minute they told her she could go in. Because they would not allow children into the emergency psychiatric rooms I waited alone. It was all very institutional looking. Sterile green, hard plastic chairs filled the room. In the ’70s hospitals were not very inviting. No one spoke to me as I waited, it wasn’t very long until I saw my mother. She flew through the doors crying and yelling. My father had asked for his girlfriend and did not want to see my mother. This is where things went very wrong. She grabbed my hand pulling me through the halls of the hospital and out to the car. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she wailed and yanked me into the car. She was in no condition to drive but that didn’t matter. We drove around for what seemed like hours. She cried and recounted the story to me. At times she was driving on the sidewalk. “I have no one who cares about me!” “I’m all alone in the world.” “I wish I were dead,” she said. “But you have me and grandpa and grandma!” I tried to comfort her. Finally, after what seemed like forever I convinced her to go over to a friend’s house. She barreled into his driveway startling him. He was sitting in a lawn chair having a drink. John, a friend of both my parents, would sometimes watch me if they had to go out at night. My dad had done some work for him and through that they became friends. John listened to my mother’s story and did his best to calm her down. I stood at the end of the driveway frozen, not recognizing my mother. She had been upset before but nothing like this. She sat in the chair next to him crying and talking about dying. She wailed and screamed. At some point, he went inside and called an ambulance. When they arrived my mother started to yell. He had betrayed her by calling them and there was no way she was going to get into that ambulance. By this point, random neighbors had stopped to watch and John had to try to explain why there was a crazed woman wailing in his driveway. When the ambulance arrived somehow they convinced her to get in and I rode along clutching her purse in my tiny hands. I felt kind of guilty. I was ashamed of her behavior, scared about what would happen next, and also excited about riding in an ambulance. No one talked to me because they were too busy trying to keep my mother in check. She fought them and refused to lay down, finally they sedated her. She was much quieter by the time we got to the hospital. She told me to hang onto her purse and I immediately spilled it all over the emergency room floor. Tampons and money went flying. I was mortified. I wasn’t sure what tampons were but I knew she wouldn’t want everyone to see hers. That day is one of the saddest of my life. When I left the hospital she was calm and cuffed to the gurney. I went and stayed with John. He brought Muffy over to keep my company. Eventually, my aunt, Wanda, and Uncle Mike came to get me. They tried to comfort me but neither of them knew how. They were childless and everything in their house was white. It was not a kid-friendly environment. For the few weeks my mother was in the hospital they took me to see her and made sure I got to school. The hospital would let my mother out for a couple of hours to have lunch with us. I hated to see her go back. Living with my mother was hard but living with my aunt Wanda was worse. My aunt Wanda had money but she was a very cold person. I knew her and my mother did not get along and so I could never really let my guard down around her. I also knew, because my mother had no filter, that my aunt Wanda strongly disliked my father. There were many reasons to dislike my dad but one of hers was his race. Knowing I was half Mexican made me wonder if she hated me too? Soon my mother and I were back in our little apartment but nothing would ever be the same. Abandonment is one of the worst things a kid can experience. I almost lost both my parents on the same day. The dangers of the world became very clear to me. I understood that there are so many ways to lose your parents. You can lose them due to something like the rapture, or suicide, you can lose them through divorce or depression. Loss doesn’t always have to be physical, it can be emotional or mental. To this day I’m not sure which is worse. I felt guilty for being embarrassed by my mother’s behavior. I felt anger towards my father for hurting her so badly but I also wondered why he was so sad he wanted to end his life. Later he would tell me it was an accident. Neither of them ever wanted to talk about it even as the years passed and I could have better understood. All the adults around me, teachers, and neighbors looked at me with pity in their eyes but no one said a word. I could tell things were different now. 

Sometime around age 7 or 8, we moved to Vera Count. It was just a couple of blocks away from School Rd. We now had a bigger place but it was definitely a step-down. We lived at the top of a circle and next to our building was a big field and wooded area. There was plenty of room to play outside and the school playground was just behind the building across the street. Just a couple of blocks can make a big difference. I could feel our poverty and the poverty of our neighbors after we moved. My mother would point out to me the good buildings and the bad buildings within our low income block. “At least we don’t live over there” she would say. 

The older I got the more scared I became. During this time my mother was also becoming more and more unhinged. After her suicide attempt, she was at least being treated for depression. Later we would find out that she was bi-polar.  My dad was in and out of our home, as usual,  and stability was nowhere to be found. My mother was upset with her pastor because she felt he did not help her enough when she was in the hospital. She called some other pastors around town and wasn’t happy with their response either. This left us without a church and that was uncomfortable for her. She had gone to church every Sunday for her entire life and she feared for what would happen to her salvation if she wasn’t going somewhere. My aunt and uncle would invite her to go to church with them and we did for a while. That church was tiny and it reminded me of the church in the Thief in the Night series. The one they were taken to when they were about to be executed. Behind that church was a movie theater that my dad would often take me to. The theater let the church members park in its lot. When getting out of our car I always wished we were going to the theater instead. When we returned after the Sunday morning service you could smell the movie popcorn drifting through the air. 

My mother used God, the rapture, and hell a lot when she was upset at me. I remember one incident when she turned the shower on for me and I was complaining that it was too hot. “It will be a lot hotter in hell if you don’t get in that shower and start listening to me! Any normal childhood sassiness or conflict could warrant a warning about missing the rapture or burning for eternity. God was her enforcer. She and my grandparents talked often about how he could see and hear everything I did and thought. Not only could my actions send me to hell but my thoughts. It’s weird to grow up having no privacy, not even within your own head. I felt like God and the devil were following me everywhere all the time. God with his book of life ready to scratch me out or write me back in and the devil just seeing if he could trip me up. 

When I think of the 4 years we lived on Vera Court what stands out the most to me is how unsafe I felt all the time. The older you get the more you understand why the world is dangerous. My mom would go over the rules with me all the time, don’t answer the door unless you know the person knocking, lock the door, and deadbolt the door whenever you are in the apartment. When you are inside make sure to use the chain lock. My mother had some OCD tendencies so she would have to check the door multiple times, along with the windows, and lights. Bedtime could take awhile. After that man broke into my room she was always worried it would happen again. I was more worried about other monsters. No amount of locking things would keep Satan or God out for that matter. 

When I was around 4 years old my father took me to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. We went to see it in the theater near my aunt’s church, the one that always tempted me with the smell of popcorn. It was pretty magical. The old theater had twinkle lights in the ceiling and I was impressed! The seats felt scratchy and heavy curtains hung down in front of the screen. Now that venue is mostly used for music and comedy performances. Whenever I go there I feel the warm memory of that first movie outing with my dad. It is still just as magical as it was in 1974. I loved the movie but the evil queen really terrified me. Soon after someone bought me this lovely gold edged Disney storybook and on the back cover was the old scary witch from Disney’s Snow White. Every night I would have to make sure the back cover was facing away from me so her evil eyes would not stare at me as I slept. Really she was the least of my worries. 

In the darkness, I could never be certain that the devil would not grab me. He could be anywhere. Under my bed, in the closet, or under a pile of clothing. I would worry about men coming to get me and chop off my head or make me take the mark of the beast. I always slept with my face and right hand covered in hopes of keeping someone from giving me the mark when I wasn’t awake. Silly really but it was kid logic. All these fears fed into other unrelated fears, or maybe regular childhood fears. I was afraid of this character on Sesame Street and to a greater level Mr. Yuck. Whenever the character came on or the Mr. Yuck commercial came on PBS I would hide under our coffee table until it was over. All kids go through these things but I had no adult around to talk me through it so the fears got bigger and stronger. I can still remember how my heart pounded. My mother was oblivious to it all until she was home on vacation one week and witnessed me cowering under the coffee table. We talked about it but I don’t know if it made me feel any better. I was very fearful of UPC symbols on products because I had been taught that the mark of the beast would be just like those symbols. Each UPC symbol already had 666 embedded in it just waiting to be activated when the Antichrist came into power. Add to that all of the things that had Mr. Yuck stickers on them and even things like cleaning products under the sink became diabolical. I would turn the labels in the refrigerator and cupboards so the UPC symbol was facing away and if I was in the bathtub or shower I would do the same. As I write this my thoughts are that I sound nuts, and then I remember that I need to show compassion to myself. Children should be taught healthy fear of some things because otherwise, they may not survive childhood. The problem is my childhood was awash in all sorts of unhealthy fears. 

Not long after we moved to Vera Ct we were invited to ride the Sunday school bus to a new Church. At first, when the Sunday school folks would knock on the door my mother would hide. She did this whenever someone came to the door unexpectedly. She hated when people would try to sell her something or the Jehovah’s Witnesses would stop by to chat. She would pull the shades and put her finger to her lips to signal to me to be quiet. She would peek through the shades in order to judge when they had left the building. Only then would she tell me it was clear. These new unexpected guests were from the United Pentecostal Church. At first, my mother was reluctant. She did not agree with how they baptized people, but after a while, she gave in. She was a church hopper and I think she was tired of trying to find the right place. She also really enjoyed their worship style and I think that kind of grabbed her. My mother loved music more than almost anything and if there was one thing she hated it was dry worship services. Calvary Gospel United Pentecostal Church did not have dry worship services, in fact, it was quite the opposite. It was not unusual to see people loudly speaking in tongues, dancing in the spirit, or running through the aisles. It could be pretty entertaining for a kid to watch, it certainly wasn’t dull. It seemed a lot like the Jimmy Swaggart services my mother would watch on television. He would sing and speak in tongues. He sometimes danced on stage a little. It wasn’t that foreign. I liked the church at first. The people seemed friendly and the church itself was a nice facility. As an adult, I can look back and see there was a fair amount of love bombing going on. These people appeared friendly on the surface but there was an edge there. I enjoyed the worship services along with my mother. The clapping and upbeat music were fun to sing along to. At this point, I was too young to really understand what we were becoming involved with. There is no way I could have known that there was no room for childhood within this church just like there was no room for childhood in my regular day to day life. I was a stressed-out kid and this was about to get much worse. They say His burden is light but the burden of his church almost killed me. 

Before I go any further I feel I should say that I believe The United Pentecostal Church to be a cult. I believe that they engage in brainwashing and use cultish means to keep people in line. I know that not everyone who reads this will agree with me. I can only speak from my experience and from what I hear from fellow survivors. 

I liked riding the Sunday school bus! We would sing and when they dropped us at home I would get to pick a piece of candy. Sometimes my mom did not want to go and she would force me to hide with her. It never mattered if I wanted to go or not. My grandparents were very unhappy to hear she was attending a “Jesus Only” church. They gave her a lot of grief about it. They did not live in town and the church people saw her more, I think in the end the church won due to proximity and persistence. My aunt Wanda did not approve either. She would tell my mother any chance she got which drove them further apart. 

In reality skipping church was not that bad. The Sunday school bus was fun but my Sunday School class was another story. When we skipped church my mother would make homemade cinnamon rolls with me and she would watch some television preacher while I did whatever I wanted. I thought she was an amazing baker, she wasn’t, but she could turn that dough into something so delicious!.

My parents and my grandparents taught me from the cradle that giving money to the church was very important. My mom would press coins into my hand before leaving me at Sunday school so I would always have something for the offering plate. Weirdly my mother did not feel that tithing was important, she would always say God understands and so we give what we can. Calvary Gospel Church did not agree with that. God may understand but Pastor Grant did not. Sunday school was ok. I really did not enjoy being around other kids that much so I just tried to get through it mostly for the cookie and juice. I’d much rather be upstairs where the action was happening. We would hear the same stories over and over again all told with little felt people on a felt board. We had two older ladies who taught our class of 7 and 8-year-olds. One would tell the stories and the other would glare at us so we would not get too squirrely. Whenever we were allowed to be in the adult service, usually during the holidays, it was so interesting. All of those ladies in their fancy dresses and big hair. Part of me wanted to be just like them and another part of me wanted to be like the pastor. Whenever I played church at home I was always the pastor and I didn’t know yet that women couldn’t be pastors. I wondered how they chose which verses to read? Do they practice a lot? Maybe when I was a grown-up it would all come to me. I made little hymnals out of paper and handed them out to all of my stuffies. When I got older I would have my Barbies dress up in their best dresses and there might even be someone dancing in the aisle. I created a little church using books and blocks. Lots of Barbie weddings happened there. I believe what drew me to the idea of being a pastor was a desire to care for others. I knew that the adults in my life placed great importance on the church and so if I wanted to impress them, and I did, the church would be the best way to accomplish that.

I made a few friends when we started to go to more than just the Sunday morning service. I always felt a little on the outside of things because we were attending but not officially “saved” and therefore not totally in. My mother eventually gave in and got rebaptized so she would be considered saved by their standards. This only made the pressure on me greater. Adults would always ask, “When are you going to get the Holy Ghost?” The United Pentecostal Church only believes you have the Holy Ghost if you speak in tongues. I have spoken to many adults who grew up within the UPC church who fully admit to faking speaking in tongues just to get the pressure off. Of course, this doesn’t remove the pressure of worrying about going to hell. The UPC believes that you must repent, be baptized in Jesus’s name by immersion, and then speak in tongues to be saved. If any part of this formula is missing you will not be allowed into heaven. It can be heartbreaking to watch people struggle through waiting to be filled with the Holy Ghost. They would often repent and get baptized and then not speak in tongues for a long time all the while their salvation hangs in the balance. Our pastor taught a hell where you would burn forever but never die. It is a terrible idea for most adults to grapple with and for children it is the stuff of nightmares. Being separated from God is sad but for a child to be separated from every adult in your life is even scarier. Abandonment is a huge worry for all children. They ask the question, “Am I safe?” “Can I depend on the adults in my life to be there?” The church I grew up in would answer, maybe not. Children are exposed to these messages long before they can handle the content and are expected to make decisions about faith long before they can really comprehend the message. My childhood understanding of salvation went something like…I’m bad, Jesus is the only one who can save me so I have to do what he says, or His father will send me to hell if I don’t comply. Not really much of a salvation message. 

My favorite part of church was the worship portion. I loved to sing and when I sang I felt close to God. If the worship service was really hot we might not even have a preaching portion. It all depended on how the “spirit moved.” I loved those services, all-singing, and no scary parts. Once the preaching started, who knew what you might get. 

My mother had a hard time making friends even after they considered her saved. She never thought she was good enough and always thought people were gossiping about her. She just seemed to lack the ability to trust. In the end, there were a few kind souls who tried to be friends with her and for a while, this church looked like it might be a good thing in our lives. She still had her good pal Gail and my mother even invited her to church. Gail did not seem as impressed as my mother was but she would still come from time to time. She always came if they were showing the “Thief in the Night” films. Yep, this church showed them too. No matter where we went I couldn’t get away from them. Strangely, my mother never had trouble making friends outside the church. It is only within the church that she struggled. 

As a side note, it turns out there was a lot of gossip going on within the church so my mother wasn’t totally off in her concern. She would have never fit in there for the long haul. She was too working-class poor and eventually divorced. Plus they considered her marriage to my father to be interracial and that was a big no-no. The church taught that if you were in an interracial marriage when you became saved you should stay in that marriage. Over the years I watched how people in interracial marriages were treated and it was racist. My mother can be difficult to understand. As much as she was worried about missing the rapture she was also a bit of a free spirit. I think those parts of her core personality were always at odds with each other. She never gave up her pants or stopped cutting her hair even though the church taught strongly against these things. Compliance was not strictly necessary for salvation but then it kind of was. If you sinned by not following God’s word about your hair then you might miss the rapture or lose your salvation. Salvation was something we were always fighting for and it could slip through your fingers in a moment. I felt like I was always one mistake away from being lost. As a teen, I would envision what it would be like to be in heaven if my mother ended up in hell. I could never figure out how I could be happy knowing she was suffering forever, how could that be heaven? The church would say that God and heaven would be so wonderful and pure and therefore you would have no concern for such things. 

Anti-Christ, C-PTSD, Childhood, Fear, Rapture, Uncategorized

Apocalypse Comes Calling

Deb M

***Trigger Warning*** Rapture, Endtimes, TITN

My parents were married around 1968. They appear miserable in all of the photos from their wedding day. In each one, they stare back at the camera with somber expressions made all the more depressing by the black and white color. They don’t appear to be at church. It’s just the two of them standing by a Formica table. Some of the photos include a small cake. My father is wearing a suit and my mother is wearing a simple white dress. They both appear to be there against their will as if someone is holding a gun to their backs just outside of the frame. My father, Amando, seems steely and looks to be clenching his jaw tightly. My mother, Marla, seems sad and resigned. Neither of them ever talked about their wedding day or courtship but they did seem to love each other even if that love was toxic and almost killed them. It may have been the time period. There are photos of my aunt from the same time and she appears equally unfriendly and gloomy. My aunt is probably not the best example because she is gloomy and unfriendly by nature. I was born in June of 1970 and luckily there are some photos of my parents smiling with me. My favorite photo from that time period features my mother in a summer dress, hair wrapped in rollers, cradling me in her arms. She looks relaxed and happy. My father remains serious in most of the photos from that year but there are a few from time to time where he looks like his guard might be down, in those moments a smile creeps in. Like many little girls, I adored my father. I think I spent most of my childhood chasing after his love, time, and acceptance. I loved my mother too but I saw her as fragile and in need of someone to look out for her. I could never really be a child around either of them.

I have lived in the Madison Wisconsin area all my life. It hasn’t been until the last couple of years that I could really imagine living anywhere else. Now I dream of Colorado or somewhere in the desert. There is a lot to love about Wisconsin. There are beautiful parks and lakes. I am a nature lover and so I would miss this for sure if I ever relocated. I am an empty nester and it almost feels like I’m starting a new life filled with all sorts of possibilities. I have a love-hate relationship with my home town. While it is a great place to live it also holds some truly awful memories for me. Part of me knows that these memories will follow me wherever I go because they live inside of me, the other part just wishes to not be reminded every day of my past. For now, most of my children are here and so this is where I intend to remain. In the wee hours of the morning when I’m staring at the ceiling, I have to wonder if the ghosts would continue to haunt me if I slipped away in the middle of the night. Madison has and always will be a haunted place for me, filled with the monsters of my childhood.

When I was very little my parents lived on Main St. I can see the street in my mind’s eye but I couldn’t tell you which house we lived in. My earliest memory is from the time when we lived there. I was sitting in a highchair. I’m in the kitchen and people are bustling around me. I am watching the dust fly around in a sunbeam streaming through the window. This memory, although brief, is warm and vivid. When I think of that memory it makes me feel peaceful inside. When I close my eyes I can still see it. 

The next memory is shrouded in darkness. My father is quickly carrying me out of the church sanctuary. I’m around toddler age. I am crying hard and he is trying to quiet me. The noise coming from the sanctuary is loud and there is screaming. Our little Assemblies of God church is screening a movie and the congregation is emotional. The screaming could have been from a congregant or from the film. The film was “A Thief in the Night.” I remember looking down through my tears to my black patent leather shoes. That church had a soundproof glass viewing window and a speaker out in the vestibule. This way parents could take their children out if they needed to without missing any of the services. So even though my father took me out I could still hear the scary sounds coming from the sanctuary. To this day whenever I think of that church it sends chills down my spine. Now, as far as I know, I have no other reason to be scared by that church other than the spanking I might get if I wasn’t quiet during the services. Even now when I drive by the building something in the pit of my stomach clenches. In my mind, it represents the rapture, being left behind, and everything that comes with that. My parents thought the whole incident was humorous. They liked to brag about how I never cried or misbehaved in church. My father would brag about spanking me until I learned to be quiet. “We never put our child in the nursery”, they would boast. That one night was seen as an oddity when I cried so hard they had to take me out. Thankfully they did not spank me for being scared. My parents loved that church but before long they felt they had to leave. Their beloved pastor left and they did not like the new pastor.

In 1972 A Thief In The Night was released. It is the granddaddy of many of my childhood nightmares. It is also the first in a long line of rapture themed films. I see it as the scarier, more traumatizing version of the Left Behind films. It has not waned in popularity over time probably due to how effectively it delivers its message. A Thief In The Night was never shown in theaters but it was passed around from church to church. This made it possible for the film to skirt the rating system. It has been shown all over the world but it is best known in the American south and midwest. You could find it at Sunday night church services, youth groups, Bible camps, and Sunday school classes. Because it was shown in churches parents could expose their children to it’s dangerous message with no oversight. From what I’ve heard it seems that many churches used these films to target teens in particular. I am so glad streaming from the internet was not a thing when I was a child. Now parents do not have to wait for their church to gain access to this series, they can stream it from the internet for free and bring its horrors right into their living rooms. I have C-PTSD for multiple reasons but I believe the seeds of it all lie within this series of films. 

This film series was written by Russell S. Doughten Jr. and directed by Donald W. Thompson. Russell S. Doughten also worked on “The Blob” in the 1950s and has a producer credit. The  original film was made in Des Moines Iowa and snaked its way through the Bible belt. The imagery and the theme song created an unforgettable experience. To this day the theme song of that film lives in my head. All I need to do is read a snippet of the lyrics or hear a tiny part of the melody to have it stuck in my head for days. Even as I’m writing this it is playing in my mind and I will have to try to do something to dig it out so that I’m not riddled with anxiety later. My mother liked the theme song, “I Wish We’d All Been Ready” and would play it on her accordion. She would sing it over and over. I was surprised to learn that song was really popular at the time and a big part of the Jesus movement. For me, it is like hearing the chimes of hell. 

There are four films in the series, A Thief In The Night, A Distant Thunder, Image of the Beast, and The Prodigal Planet. The first was released in 1972 and the last in 1983. I saw the first one when I was a toddler, probably around age 3. All of the churches we attended following that first church showed these films. My mother would sit on the bed and sing that song not understanding the trauma she was causing in my young mind. Every year following our viewing of these films I would go through a period of time when I could not sleep alone. I would have nightmares about government officials coming to get me to be beheaded. I would go through periods when I was afraid to be alone and that was a problem because I was almost always alone. If you watch the films now having had no experience with them they might seem dated, campy, and just plain weird. If you see them as a young child and all of the people in your life believe that these things are actually going to happen you will most likely be traumatized. The internet is full of people who were traumatized during childhood because they were made to watch these films in school, church, camp, or at home on video. Many horror fans embrace them as true horror films and consider them to be classic B movies. I have also seen people write about them being a gateway to their love of the horror genre. I experienced them as truth and a certain future. 

As horror films, they might be fine but as tools to scare children into salvation, they become something much more sinister. As a side note, these films are often still used for evangelism but I feel their true purpose is to keep people who are already Christians in line. Patty the main character is a Christian throughout the whole film but she isn’t the right kind of Christian. She believes in god’s love but not all of the rapture theology people keep trying to tell her about. Its message doesn’t focus on God’s love, it focuses on fear and keeping yourself on the right side of an angry vengeful god. Being a Christian is not enough. That lesson followed me through my whole childhood. The reach of these films is greater than you might think. It has been estimated that over 300,000,000 people have viewed these films. It can be a hard thing to get good estimates about because they are not shown in theaters but in church basements. One thing is for sure the memory of this series haunts the dreams of many adults who grew up in the ’70s and ’80s to this day. 

My mother believed the message introduced in these films wholeheartedly. It bled into every part of my life. Believing her heart was never quite right with god she would spend hours shut away in her bedroom crying and speaking in tongues. I would stand by the door and worry about whether or not she was going to be ok. She didn’t want me to make a lot of noise while she was praying so I couldn’t even use the television to drown out her wailing. I recall those nights as being very lonely. If she came home and couldn’t immediately locate me she would worry that I had been raptured leaving her behind. One day I was playing with my plastic sled and I fell asleep under it. She came home and searched the apartment high and low for me and when she couldn’t find me at home or at the neighbors she started screaming and that woke me up. I jumped up from under the sled and saw our neighbors and my mother standing there looking down at me. She grabbed me and held me tight to her chest. I could feel her heart racing and her face was wet with tears. On that day I got a very clear idea of how real all of this was to her, and it became even more real for me. From that day on the thought of being left behind haunted my dreams and my waking hours. I worried about what small sin or act of childhood would keep me from flying up to heaven with my mother. I constantly asked Jesus to forgive my sins even asking him to forgive sins I might have forgotten about. In my mind, Jesus was a scorekeeper. He was keeping track of every thought and action, and he had no problem at all with sending a little girl to the guillotine. 

Even after my parents moved on to other churches we lived within eyesight of the little Assemblies of God Church until about 1979. For much of my early childhood, I could see it from our front picture window. We had neighbors who attended there and my mother was close with them. Whenever they showed the “Thief in the Night” film my mother and I would go to service with them. My mother had a weird fascination or maybe obsession with the film. She and her best friend Gail were always excited to see that it would be showing again and they would pack up us kids and drag us to it. Afterward, we would all enjoy a meal together and my mother and her friend would recount everything that happened in the movie and talk about how close to the end times we were. I have never been able to understand how someone who feared the rapture so much would want to torture themselves by volunteering to watch that movie. As sequels came out we went to see all of those as well. My mother would complain about my fears, my fear of the dark, of being alone, and especially of sleeping alone but she never seemed to really get what she and my father had done by exposing me to that series of films. There were so many nights when I would lay awake worried about missing the rapture. I would dream about being chased by soldiers and being beheaded. I would flee to my mother’s bed and she would let me sleep with her but not without being pretty grumpy about it. Over the years these fears grew. I feared loud noises, especially anything that sounded like it might be a horn, white vans (because of the movie), bar codes, and men in uniforms. Later when I was older that fear would spread to credit cards, computers, and anything automated. I even grew to fear the television. My mother and her family would talk about how someday the government would be able to watch us through our television set and even see-through walls. They would talk about how after the rapture there would be no place to hide. Even as a very young child, I took their words very seriously. I would lay awake at night making sure that my right hand and forehead were covered by the blankets at all times. 

Revelation 13:16-17 King James Version (KJV)

16 And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads:

17 And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name.

I am sure this all sounds very strange to you if you have never encountered these beliefs before. I am also sure that some of you have shivers running down your spine right now because you know exactly what I’m talking about. The fears caused by all of this would only get louder as I got older. It wasn’t until I was in my 40’s that I figured out how to deal with them. Even then I can only deal with them, the CPTSD makes sure they are never far away.

Childhood, Family, Fear, isolation, Stress, Trauma, Uncategorized

Childhood and Adventure

Deb M

Part 3

Both of my parents were checked out much of the time. I was raised by television. Many of us who grew up in the ’70s had this experience. I lived my day according to what show was on next. The people on television were my friends and they kept me company while my mother was away. I would build tents out of the dining room chairs and blankets from my bed.. My dog Muffy and I would hunker down inside and eat snacks while watching Gilligan’s Island. I loved building those tents. Once inside it felt like I was in a different world. Under my blankets with my furry companion felt safe and warm. I can still feel the softness of Muffy’s fur and the way she smelled. Muffy was my only company when my mother was away. She was a beautiful white Samoyed dog with happy brown eyes. She was very easy going and always willing to play tea party with me or even dress up. To this day I love dogs and I feel I owe a debt of gratitude to Muffy for taking care of me. For the first ten years of my life, she was there. There were times when she was the only being around to comfort me and she was often the only really dependable thing in my life. She was like a second mother to me and many of the good memories I have from the first 10 years feature her. 

In the morning my alarm clock would go off and I would hear Bugs Bunny say “Eh What’s Up Dock?” I loved my Bugs clock! Alone I would get up, eat, and get myself ready for school. I knew when “Leave It To Beaver” came on it was time to go. At the end of the day when I returned home, I would watch “Bugs Bunny” and “Gilligan’s Island”. Most of the time the television was just on as background noise to keep me from feeling alone. I would bring art projects out into the living room and work on them in front of the television. When there was nothing on tv I wanted to watch I would go play in my room or I would play outside. Sometimes I would play with friends but I felt guilty about leaving Muffy alone if she had been alone all day. I wonder if she saw my being out of the house as a break, much like a young mother might relish nap time. For a little bit she would not have to be my Dressy Bessie. 

In the evenings my mother and I would watch “Sonny and Cher”, “The Love Boat”, “Fantasy Island”, and “Charlie’s Angels”. I enjoyed all of these shows. When my mother was home we would often sit on the floor, in the dark, and she would bring out a big bag of nuts from the kitchen. It was like being in a movie theater. She would crack the nuts open for me and we would have them as a treat. Sometimes we would have a generic soda too. My mother loved orange, grape, and root beer flavors so that is what we had to choose from. When I think of these times with my mother it warms my heart. It calls to mind the physical closeness I so needed and that could be hard to come by. I lived for these moments. The person I loved best in the world was finally there beside me and she wasn’t crying or screaming, she was laughing. In the dark it did not matter that we had no sofa to cuddle on or that the devil might be hiding in the closet, all that mattered was that we were together. 

I really loved Cher! She was one of the only people on television who looked like me. Certainly, she was the only woman I was aware of. She had long black hair and olive skin just like mine. I loved seeing all of her glamorous Bob Maki dresses. She was both beautiful and talented. She gave me the impression that she ran her own life and maybe Sonny’s too. She was confident and I wanted to be like her. Another woman I admired from television was Lucille Ball. I thought she was beautiful as well and so funny. Lastly, there was Carol Burnett. I did not see her as a great beauty but as the funniest woman ever! I loved her show and couldn’t wait for it every week. When it went into syndication, I could watch it in the afternoon. I never missed a show. These women helped me to develop my sense of humor. Cher was sharp and kind of dry, Carol and Lucy perfected physical comedy. When my mother would go into one of her depressive moods I would act out scenes from these shows to try to make her laugh. If that didn’t work I would dig into my candy stash to find something to make her smile. My mother loved candy so the combination of my best Carol Burnett impersonation and a Snickers bar could go a long long way. 

On the action side, I could not get enough of “Charlie’s Angels”, “The Bionic Woman”, and “Wonder Woman”! These women inspired me to be strong and athletic. I would run through the woods pretending to be Wonder Woman! I love those memories. I had a fort in the trees and I would perch on a branch and pretend to be in my invisible plane. I saw myself in these characters. They were tough, confident, and dependable, all things I hoped to be. I tried and tried to make my hair do the 70’s flip or feather, no matter what I did it never worked. 

To this day I love female comedians, especially if they embrace physical comedy. I enjoy female cop shows and superhero characters. When I get lost and I can’t find my way they help me to get back to myself. They remind me of who I was at the beginning, who I am at my core. They remind me of my mother, which can be both good and bad. They remind me of how far I’ve traveled to get to where I am now. They continue to provide comfort and inspiration! 

Television offered me predictability and comfort. Shows were almost always on when you thought they would be. I could see this extended family whenever I wanted and they would always be the same. The sounds of their voices coming down the hall from the living room made our apartment feel like it was full and not so empty. I feel the shows helped me to become more socially confident. My mother and father were socially awkward and so they did not provide good examples of how to fit in. I have always felt odd in the world but it could have been much worse. I watched these shows and learned how to interact with people and it showed me how adults should be with kids. Television helped me see the inappropriateness of my parent’s behavior. Television also helped to keep the things I was afraid of at bay. 

When I wasn’t watching television I played outside. We had a small wooded area next to our apartment along with a large hill and field. On the other side of the field was my elementary school and playground. When the weather was nice I would play in my “fort”. Wonder Woman was my favorite scenario. Those woods had the potential to be so much. They could be my invisible plane when I climbed the tree and sat on a branch that overlooked our street and the low brush was my fort or secret lair. The large rocks made great chairs and an easy to move low hanging tree branch served as a secret invisible door. In the summer it wasn’t 

unusual for me to waste the afternoon running through the tall grass having spectacular adventures. Even in these happy times fear followed me around lurking behind every tree and waiting for me at home. When I think of that fear now I can feel it in my chest. I can imagine it is not unlike what a rabbit feels when it senses danger. You become still and hope you can’t be seen. 

My dog Muffy liked to be outside when it wasn’t too hot. She made a pretty good playmate. Even though she was a big dog I managed her fine. She never ran away even when I dropped her leash. Even though I don’t think she enjoyed it much, she would climb in the sled with me and go down the hill. Well, truth be told she only made it half way down the hill before jumping out of the sled and running to the bottom to meet me. Once at the bottom of the hill she would chase after me to get to the top and do it all over again. When the weather was warmer she would play kickball with me. Which meant I would kick my small red rubber ball and she would chase after me as I pretended to run the bases. When we grew tired we would plop down in the grassy field and I would make dandelion jewelry and crowns. I was very allergic to both the grass and the dandelions so it didn’t take long for us to be driven back into the apartment to cool off. Once inside I would grab a popsicle and arrange my dandelion creations so that I could show my mother when she returned home. Often by the time my mother arrived they were very wilted. It made me sad that I could not figure out how to keep them pretty for her. 

On other days I would slip through a small trail in the treeline behind our apartment that opened onto some railroad tracks. I would follow those tracks all the way to the beach. When I think about it now it seems so dangerous. I would bring a towel, some beach toys, and whatever change I could gather so that I could buy some ice cream once I got there. I would play in the sand and water all day without any adult supervision. To this day I am not the strongest swimmer and I recognize how lucky I am that I never got hurt. Even though it was dangerous I can’t help but think of these days warmly. My childhood was not safe by any stretch of the imagination but it was filled with childish adventure. I had so much unstructured time to explore the world around me and these days at the beach are the best example of this. All I need is to hear the sound of the waves hitting the shore and I’m instantly taken back to those days sitting on the beach eating a popsicle with my toes buried in the wet sand. By the end of the summer, my skin would be a deep brick-brown making me stick out like a sore thumb. Adults and children alike seemed confused and interested in my appearance. They would often ask me about my ethnicity and when I was young I thought it was kind of a game. Later it would make me feel bad about being different. 

When I wasn’t outside I loved to create little art projects. My mother saw early on that I was a blooming artist and so she made sure I always had paint, markers, and clay to play with. My mother was an accomplished artist. Part of my desire to create was driven by wanting to be as skilled as my mother. She liked to draw nature scenes and especially animals. My mother grew up around horses. I could tell by the stories that she told me about her childhood that she loved her horses. I would ask her over and over to tell me about Dolly and the others. She would tell me each horse’s name and then describe what they look like. She would include details like which horse liked to get into mischief and which ones liked apples. I would try my best to draw them as my mother had described. I also drew my dream horse over and over again. He had a black tail and mane and was a deep chocolate color. I could never match my mother’s sketching talent and this distressed me. She bought me this large oversized book about how to draw horses and I spent many hours trying my best to follow the instructions. I became pretty good at it! But sadly never as good as my mother. It really bothered me. It took me until well into adulthood to be able to create art for art’s sake and to not be still comparing myself to my mother in my head. 

After my horse drawing stage I moved onto my fancy lady stage. I was fascinated with dresses from the 1800s and I would draw what I called “fancy ladies”. Some would have parasols and others would have very elaborate hats. I dreamed of being like them. This led me to be obsessed with the “Gibson Girl”. I loved to draw elaborate updos from that trend and I would practice them over and over. I think this phase was more enjoyable to me compared with the horse phase. My mother did not draw these “fancy ladies” and so I was not constantly comparing myself with her. I could just draw for the love of drawing. For a long time Snoopy was a subject I would sketch over and over. I always looked forward to the Charlie Brown specials mostly for the scenes that featured Snoopy. 

I tried many other crafts and it was easy because my mother had a closet full of half-finished projects. I spent hours playing with my spin art toy. It was one of those toys where you put the paper in the tray and then drop bits of paint onto it while it spins. I also learned to finger crochet and latch hook. I was not a big fan of finger crocheting but I loved to latch hook. I would sit side by side with my mother and we would make latch hook projects together. She also taught me to make little potholders with a plastic loom. When she was creating she was smiling. Right from the start, it was clear to me that she became bored much faster than I did. She would start a project and then get bored, it would go to live in her bedroom closet and maybe one day I would pick it up and finish it. This is one way in which my mother and I are very different. I hate having unfinished projects laying around. This goes for books too. I will finish the most boring books just because I can’t seem to allow myself to just not like something and then put it down. I really have no idea where this comes from. 

I possessed a big imagination and it showed through in my playtime and art. I believe that my imagination is what got me through all of those long hours of being alone. When I think of this time it brings a smile to my face. I was a vibrant child so full of promise. When I think about it a little longer my smile turns to sadness for all of the hours I spent alone. It wasn’t safe and I never felt safe. 

Calvary Gospel Church, Pastor John Grant, Sexual Abuse, Survivors, Trauma, Uncategorized, United Pentecostal Church

Something Good

Deb M

It is pretty unusual for me to have something good to report and so I am really happy to have some positive news to share with you today! Some of you may remember reading Rebecca’s story here:

https://survivingchurchandchildhood.wordpress.com/2019/03/23/a-second-victim-steps-forward-rebeccas-story/

https://survivingchurchandchildhood.wordpress.com/2019/11/12/beckys-story-continues/

I am happy to report that her abuser is going to get his day in court. You can read about his charges below!

https://wcca.wicourts.gov/caseDetail.html?caseNo=2020CF001760&countyNo=13&index=0&mode=details 

Here is an update reported in The Cap Times this morning:

https://madison.com/ct/news/local/govt-and-politics/charges-filed-in-sexual-assault-case-linked-to-madisons-calvary-gospel-church/article_34569c20-ab50-5d81-862c-d425b1281b54.html#tracking-source=home-top-story

These charges are very serious and I hope that he does some serious jail time. Rebecca is fortunate that her case is still inside the statute of limitations. I am hoping that by shining a light on this case more survivors may come forward. It can be so scary to tell your story and when you go to the police often you have to tell your story over and over. Rebecca is a brave warrior and I am so happy for her!

I would be lying if I said this situation hasn’t caused me some worry. The fact is we just do not know how Calvary Gospel and the Grant family will respond to this. They have never had the light of justice shined in their eyes before. They have never been held responsible for anything. Granted this case is bringing Glen to justice and not John Grant it still has to have them rattled. They may be called into court to testify and who knows what Glen might say about the church and the Grants when he is attempting to cut a deal. In my experience, the Grants will throw people under the bus to save their own skin. I will update you as things continue to unfold.

 

Warrior Women

I will continue to fight alongside Rebecca as long as it takes to bring all of these predators to justice!

D

 

 

Calvary Gospel Church, Childhood, Pastor John Grant, racism, Shame, Uncategorized, United Pentecostal Church

More On Racism and Calvary Gospel Church

Deb M

Growing up half Mexican and attending Calvary Gospel was an odd experience at times. There were people who seemed to view me as white and then there were others who made it clear that they saw me as a person of color. The Grant’s real feelings about things were never spoken of over the pulpit and so when I was confronted with them it always surprised me. An adult once told me that the church did not believe in interracial marriage. When I asked about the people who I knew had interracial children I was told that if you were in an interracial marriage before you were saved it was ok. Hmmm ok, even as a kid that seemed off to me. As a person not seen as white or black I lived in this weird out of place world where I felt I did not fit in anywhere. Plus no one would give me straight answers about where I fit in, everything was communicated in looks and second-hand information.

Darlene Grant pastor Grant’s wife never spoke to me, I mean never, unless she was delivering criticism. If she said something to me regarding the school or the youth choir there was always a sharp edge to it even when there was no need for it. She communicated her dislike with every glance and I was left to wonder what I could have done to deserve her attitude. I suspect it had to do with Steve Dahl but who knows it could have been for a multitude of reasons.

Once or twice a year our church would be visited by a very popular evangelist. His name was Brother Hightower. He was very animated and funny and everyone loved it when he would pass through town with his family. He would pack the house and the altar would be filled with people. These revivals would last for up to two weeks and they had the feel of a festival. Less boring than a normal church service because they were more fun and more high energy. This particular event happened when I was about 13 years old. The Hightowers were in town and they brought their son who was the same age as me. The whole family was very sweet to me. It was clear that they did not view me the same way the Grants seemed to. Their son was kind of sweet on me and he would ask to sit by me and my friends during church. His mother was very strict about behavior during church but she didn’t seem to mind him sitting with us. One day he asked me if he could have my phone number and I said sure. We liked each other but it was strictly a very puppy love situation. He was only in town for a couple of weeks and I imagine it was hard to travel with your parents and not have any friends your age around. Somehow the Grants got wind of him asking for my phone number and I bet you can imagine how that went over.

One night after church Sister Grant sat down next to me. She asked if she could speak to me for a moment. This sent my heart up into my chest because she never came bearing good news. She informed me that I was not to sit next to my new friend anymore and if he called me I shouldn’t talk to him. She also forbid me to explain to him why I was no longer speaking to or sitting with him. Better to just cut it all off, because in her words, “We do not believe the way they do.” I couldn’t tell him why because it might offend them and pastor Grant did not want that to happen. So she laid in my lap rejecting the friendship of this sweet boy and forbid me to explain thus making me feel like a monster. She did not care how this action would make me look to him or his family. She was expecting me to be a mean girl in order to save her and pastor Grant from having the adult conversation they should have had with the Hightowers if that was so important to them. I will take this time to remind you that I was 13.

It felt like what they were saying is, you are too brown to be white, but too light to be black. They would not have wanted me to marry their son, but they also did not want me to be friends with this black boy who was infatuated with me. Can you see how this was all so confusing to me? I also feel that they thought this black family was good enough to come and minister/entertain them and their congregation but they were not good enough to have an honest conversation with or to “mix” with too much. They did not bring this situation to my parents they plopped it into my lap and left me feeling like I had once again done something really wrong. Over time I would see this kind of attitude play out over and over. Church kids (mostly white) don’t really mix with Sunday school bus kids even if those kids had been attending for years. I would befriend these mostly black kids because I worked the bus route and they were my age. By choosing this action I was ensuring even more side-eyes from the adults around me. Eventually, you get to the point where you recognize that no matter what you do they will look at you that way so you just give up.

I know that the church has changed some over the years. I am only speaking regarding my experience. As a side note, before the Hightowers left Sister Hightower pulled aside and told me that if I was ever in their hometown I was welcome in their home anytime. She smiled sweetly to me and I had the feeling she could see what was really going on. That gave me some relief from the shame I was feeling, shame that did not belong to me but to the adults in this twisted situation.

 

Childhood, EMDR, Rapture, Self Esteem, Sin, Trauma, Uncategorized

Celebrating Life

Deb M

The last month has been a struggle. It started with me struggling to live with fibromyalgia followed by a pretty bad fall down my basement stairs. In the midst of this, I started EMDR which has brought up some emotional stuff. In case you do not know what EMDR is here is a link https://www.emdr.com/what-is-emdr/ When I went to my first session I really wasn’t sure what to think. I wasn’t able to access much emotion even when talking about the hardest subjects. I tend to dissociate when I talk about my childhood. It is a skill I learned long ago and as dysfunctional as it is I am grateful for it. It has enabled me to survive. The therapist warned me that I might have dreams, even nightmares, and I did for about five days.

All of my dreams were different but the same. In each dream, I was faced with having made a mistake. Someone was angry with me and I was frantically trying to fix it. I was left feeling inadequate, unlovable, and unworthy. These dreams led me to think about my childhood and where all of these feelings come from.

“Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me.” Psalms 51:5

From a very young age, I was taught about heaven and hell. I believed that I was disgusting to God because of my sin and that he was only willing to accept me because of Jesus. My religious family saw childhood infractions not as normal childish behavior but as sin. My mother would often remind me that God is always watching and hell would be waiting for me when I didn’t want to clean my room. After all, it was right there in the ten commandments. Honor your father and your mother. By not cleaning my room I was not honoring her and therefore sinning. All sin led to one place.

One thing I am being treated for using EMDR is my insomnia. I have had it my whole life and no amount of sleeping pills seems to fix it. My doctor suggested trying to get to the root causes through EMDR. The echos of my childhood come to me at night when I close my eyes and try to rest. I’m hypervigilant meaning I can’t relax enough to fall asleep and once asleep I awaken easily. I have long since given up my fear of hell and the rapture but because my formative years were spent in fear of these things my hind/lizard brain still thinks there is a threat. This is part of why I have PTSD and all these years later I am held captive by the demons of my childhood.

“For yourselves know perfectly that the day of the Lord so cometh as a thief in the night. For when they shall say, Peace and safety; then sudden destruction cometh upon them, as travail upon a woman with child; and they shall not escape.” 1 Thessalonians 5:2-3

I was a fearful child. I was afraid of dying and having some unrepented sin, I was scared of God. I was afraid of missing the rapture and being left to fend for myself. I was afraid of my parents. Both of them spanked me with a belt and my mother was emotionally and mentally abusive. I was afraid of my pastor and other adults in the church.

I took the fact that I could not pray us out of poverty and I couldn’t seem to fix my parent’s marriage or my mother’s depression through prayer as rejection. I believed that if I prayed God would hear and answer, I was taught that God was the one person I could count on to meet all my needs. When all I heard was silence I wondered why? I processed it to mean that I was an exception. God would meet people’s needs, I really believed that, just not mine. Was I so broken and bad that God couldn’t hear me? I became obsessive about repenting to be sure I had no sin hanging around when it came time to pray. Maybe it was the amount of time praying that counted? Maybe I just had not prayed enough? One thing was for sure within my calculations a truth emerged, whatever the problem was it was my fault.

My parents used me as a weapon in their war against each other. I tried to love them both equally and I prayed for them both regularly. My mother believed that divorce was a sin but she got one anyway so I worried about her and her relationship with God. I witnessed her wrestle with God for money, money for rent and food, and I listened at the door when she prayed. She would cry and speak in tongues for hours. I felt shut out from her when she retreated to her room and I felt bad for her when I heard her cries from behind the door. She was trying to reach God and apparently it wasn’t working because she kept going back and each night her tears would flow, they were not tears of joy.

Over all of those years I learned to be tough. I learned to shelf my needs in order to care for both of my parents. Neither of them were all that mentally stable and so I managed their sadness and feelings of rejection while feeling rejected myself. I kept my sadness to myself. My parents were not equipped for empathy. Everything was about them and what was going on in their lives, I was merely there, like furniture and furniture doesn’t have needs.

The church did not care about my needs. They cared about keeping me in line and filling me with fear so I would never leave or think for myself. I never found acceptance there, I only found judgement. It seemed to me that I was too poor, too brown and too me to ever be ok in their eyes. The fact that I was sexually assaulted by Steve Dahl only made me more broken and defective in their eyes. I felt beyond repair, at times I still do.

Over time I let go of the beliefs of the church and my family. It was all about survival. Most of the time I am ok, at least on the surface. I am proud of what I have made of my life. If I scratch beneath the surface, which is what EMDR has done, I can see the still open wounds of my childhood. This makes me kind of angry. I have worked so hard to move past all of this and it makes me so angry to be confronted with how it all still hurts and haunts me. My reality is that I still feel unloveable. No matter how much love I receive from family and friends I still feel unloveable. I can never trust that love is real or that it will stick around. I am still very guarded even after all of the work I have done. I still struggle with feeling inadequate no matter how many successes I have. No amount of praise will allow me to feel my work or art is good enough and no amount of success takes away the sting of feeling not good enough. All of this leads to the unshakable feelings of unworthiness that cover me like a gray cloud. No amount of working on my self esteem seems to heal the wounds of being told I was bad from birth, born from a sinful woman, and only saveable through the grace of a God I could not trust.

This brings me to now. This morning I have been thinking about all of this and trying to process before my next therapy session. In the midst of all this, I need to remember to celebrate my life now as it is. I have to remember to love myself and to celebrate all of my successes even if they are not perfect. In many ways I am proud of my life and what I have overcome. I believe I am a good person and worthy of love and acceptance, even if my hindbrain hasn’t gotten the memo. I’m proud of the family I have raised and I have to try to remember to allow myself to be warmed by their love. For now, my struggle continues and for today I’m choosing to celebrate life even with the ghosts lingering in the shadows.

“I was born in a thunderstorm
I grew up overnight
I played alone
I played on my own
I survived
Hey
I wanted everything I never had
Like the love that comes with light
I wore envy and I hated that
But I survived
I had a one-way ticket to a place where all the demons go
Where the wind don’t change
And nothing in the ground can ever grow
No hope, just lies
And you’re taught to cry into your pillow
But I survived
I’m still breathing, I’m still breathing
I’m still breathing, I’m still breathing
I’m alive
I’m alive
I’m alive
I’m alive…”
Sia

 

Calvary Gospel Church, isolation, Sexual Abuse, Shame, Stress, Uncategorized, United Pentecostal Church

Virginity

Deb M

*This post could be viewed as graphic so reader beware*

When you grow up in a church like the one I grew up in virginity is very important. Alongside that goes the rampant sexual abuse of young girls. These two things coexist in an impossible way. Girls bear all of the responsibility for keeping themselves and the males pure even if those males are adults. The males can be forgiven over and over and never really lose any status but once a girl gives in she is forever ruined in the eyes of the church. After Steve Dahl abused me I was seen as a temptress and as spoiled. How sad to have the adults in your life see you as ruined at the age of 12. It hurt to be seen this way and it destroyed my self-esteem. I started to see my future as very limited. Women are viewed as only good for marriage and raising a family and you can only marry someone who is also United Pentecostal. I had 5 dating options within my church if I wanted to stay within my age group. If the parents of those boys saw me as dangerous or tainted they were going to dissuade their sons from dating me. This meant that I often dated and had puppy love romances with boys from other UPC churches. Their parents wouldn’t know about what Steve did to me.

At age 16 I dated a man who attended Calvary Gospel. His sister and her husband were part of the “in” group. This guy was well into his 20’s but no one batted an eye. I wasn’t anything to preserve or protect, after all, I was already ruined. This guy was a chronic backslider and he was the most dangerous choice I could find. At this point, I was so angry. A boy who I really cared about, one of the 5 options, had just broken my heart. I knew his mother did not approve of us being together. She made no secret of how she felt often saying things when I could easily overhear. It was after this break up that I started to see the church in a way that became harder and harder to look away from. I cried for weeks after this breakup. I would cry in my office at school and I stopped eating. Eventually, I withdrew from all of the church activities I was involved with and went from sitting in the second row to sitting in the back row. People would look at me kind of weird but no one said anything and none of the adults checked in on me. So I decided to rebel.

After years of feeling never good enough I decided to date Mike, the 20-something guy who I would eventually have sex with. We went to church together and everyone knew we were a couple but no one spoke out and said, “Hey that guy is an adult and she is underage!” It was accepted and I am sure the church saw it as a good match. The guy no one would want their daughter to marry and the teen no one would want their son to marry. People treated Mike fine, he was male, and whenever he backslid the prayer chain would light up. They had compassion for him even if they thought he was kind of a troubled guy. Our relationship was not a good one. He was mentally and emotionally abusive to me. He stalked me after I broke things off with him. One night, just like many of the evenings we spent together, we had sex. It was not special. It was more like checking something off of a list. I was detached from what was happening, being with Steve Dahl taught me how to do that. I wasn’t in my body or feeling anything. I was somewhere else watching someone else. I believe I felt that by doing this I would be stepping closer to adulthood and if the church was going to insist that I was a whore than I was going to be one. My heart breaks for my child self because I was still a child and I needed an adult, just one adult to care about me.

I have been thinking about this a lot over the last couple of days. It hit me, while I was doing yoga, and I see things clearer now than I ever have. Mike didn’t take my virginity. Steve did. By age 12 he was doing everything but having intercourse with me and he tried to have intercourse with me. Not to be too graphic but you don’t have to have intercourse to have penetration. All those years growing up in that terrible church the adults all knew something I did not. I kept thinking that I was still a virgin because I had not had sex, but they all knew what Steve took from me. I think this is part of the reason I felt nothing about what Mike and I did when we eventually had intercourse. This makes me so sad.

I want to close this post by saying I do not agree with Calvary Gospel. Losing your virginity doesn’t make you less than. If you are young and reading this please hear me! You are just as worthy before sex as after. If an adult is having sex with you or trying to have sex with you please tell someone. If the first person does nothing keep telling until someone listens. If you have been or are being abused please don’t take the shame of the abuser into yourself. The shame and responsibility belong to them. If you were abused and never told anyone that is ok too. If you want to tell now, even if the abuse has stopped that is ok too. You are good, worthy, and wonderful. I am here to support you along with so many others.

D

Calvary Gospel Church, Compassion, Crime, Forgiveness, Holiness Standards, Justice, Leadership, Pastor John Grant, Sexual Abuse, Uncategorized, United Pentecostal Church

Following The Leader

Deb M

Over the last year, I have written about how much it saddens me that the congregation within Calvary Gospel Church seems to have completely lost their hearts and capacity for compassion. I have turned this over in my head repeatedly and this post comes from the conclusions I have reached.

I believe that CGC is a cult of personality. In the beginning, it was focused on John Grant and now by extension his family. The congregation was mean spirited when I was a child in the ’70s and ’80s and it seems that it has only gotten worse over time. I do not see any evidence that CGC is all that interested in following what most folks would consider to be Christian principles. Instead they follow what the Grant family says and in some ways John Grant has replaced God in their hearts and beliefs. At the very least their version of Christianity is harsh and devoid of lovingkindness. There is a coldness present that leaves no room for understanding. It seems like a perversion of the gospel to blame victims and hide criminals.

When churches are run with such a strong leader in control of almost everything they run the risk of becoming cults and that is how I feel about both CGC and the UPC as a whole. When those in the pews hang on the words of the pastor or organization leadership and can no longer see the words within the Bible or hear the voice of God then haven’t they shifted into cult territory? There is such a strong focus on tongues but not on love. There is a legalistic focus on standards but very little is ever said about grace and grace is rarely shown, unless you are a man who has committed sexual sin against a child. Has the church board ever said no to John or Roy Grant? Have the elders ever called them into question? My guess is no because the church is set up to “question not God’s anointed.” Once in that territory, I would argue that the pastor can do almost anything and use hearing the voice of God to justify it. This doesn’t seem like a safe or sane situation to me. Because of this I firmly believe that the Grants have surpassed God in the hearts and minds of the rank and file within CGC. When I was a child they taught me that something becomes a cult when it is no longer Christ-centered. It seems to me that they have more than strayed into this area. Many people talk around the word cult and seem scared to apply it to the UPC but I am not one of those people.

It is shocking how they as a congregation can shut their eyes and ears to the stories coming from those who have walked away. Many of us were children when we attended and we grew up under the influence of the church, and many of us have had very similar outcomes. Pretty much everyone who has read my story and commented to me has said they are so sorry and sad about what I suffered as a child. The exception to this has been CGC and their leadership. They have referred to us as bringing damnation down on our heads, as bitter women, and as demon influenced, but have they spoken to any of us? Have they weighed our experiences against the Bible? What does the Bible say regarding people who harm children? No, they shut their eyes and ears and applaud the man who covered it all up. They believe it is them against all of the survivors never once considering the body of Christ might be more than just them. They seem to agree that protecting the church from scrutiny and Grant’s leadership from being called into question is more important than the lives of so many people.

Judgment features heavily within this congregation. Are you sick? Hmm better get your heart right so you can be healed. You must not have enough faith, better work on that. Are you poor? It’s probably because you are not tithing enough. God would bless you if you would be more perfectly in line with what the church teaches. Were you preyed upon by a pedophile, well you must have lead him on in some way. Anything that is wrong in your life or a hardship can be tied to some sin you must be guilty of. This puts the congregation in the role of guessing what your sin might be or standing in judgment instead of offering aid. I think all of this comes from John Grant and not the Bible. As a pastor and now bishop he has shaped the congregation into his own image. He has shown no compassion for the children driven from his congregation and seems more worried about his legacy and reputation. So why would we expect anything different from the congregation? If he or Roy were teaching the folks in the pews to love us and show compassion and mercy my guess is things might be different. If they were saying that older men with young underage women will no longer be tolerated then that would reflect in the congregation as well.

I’m not writing this as a takedown piece on John Grant or his family. I’m writing it to illuminate how far CGC has strayed from “normal” Christianity. I’m writing it in hopes that it wakes up even one person, saves one child from the fate I suffered, or even just causes someone to examine things a little closer.

Deb