Debbie McNulty

How Religion Continues To Hurt My Family

April 20, 2019 Deb M

This week something really painful happened to me. It felt like being punched in the stomach. It came completely out of left field and so I was not prepared. Earlier I posted on Facebook this cute photo of my dog and myself at the park. One of the comments left by my extended family included condolences for the loss of my grandmother. The thing is I did not know that my grandmother had passed. I was already experiencing a rough week and this was an added hurt that I did not need right now. I quickly went to Google to confirm that my suspicions were correct, and sadly I was right. My grandmother had passed and no one in my family told me. I instinctively knew that my brother had not received a call either.

Both my parents have been gone for a while. I have an aunt and an uncle plus cousins who live in Florida. All of my extended family are Pentecostal even if they are not United Pentecostal. Just like the church I grew up in they all feel they know the truth and are special, even better than other churches. Only they have the real truth! These beliefs have done so much damage to my family.

When my mother had run through all of the “acceptable to her family” churches in Madison we started to attend Calvary Gospel. Calvary Gospel was very similar to the other churches we attended except for one thing, baptism. They baptized in Jesus name and not in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. My mother’s family was so angry when we started to go to that church. They told my mother to never let herself be rebaptized because she would be damned if she did. They also did not believe my baptism was valid. Fast forward a few years and all of our family picked up and moved to Florida leaving my mother, brother, and I alone up here in Wisconsin. We drifted apart. Some because my mother was always the black sheep and some because of the distance. My mom’s family didn’t like who she married the first time and then again the second time. They did not approve of my leaving Pentecostalism and eventually Christianity. They also turned their back on my brother when he came out as gay. They have a very narrow idea of what is acceptable and none of us ever fit into it. Over the years my grandmother would send me letters and cards on the holidays. They were always very surface based and they always ended with a warning about getting my heart right before the rapture. Merry Christmas, watch out the devil is going to get you, was the feeling they always gave me. When my beloved grandpa passed no one in my family told me. When I found out I was heartbroken. He had been sick for a long long time and so I was kind of surprised when he finally passed. Once I found out it was too late to send flowers or fly down for a funeral. I learned of his passing months after the fact. I cried for days right after my third child was born during a time that should have been filled with light and joy. I cried for my lost grandpa and for the cruelty my family delivered.

Fast forward to a couple of months ago, my brother and I had this conversation and I told him I assumed grandma would pass soon and I did not think anyone would tell us. That is exactly what happened. You might wonder why I was shocked, I wondered that myself. I think cruelty always shocks me even when I know it is coming. How could they be so mean and cold? I might be hard for them to find after all of these years but my brother lives in the same area as they do and they could have found him easily. My grandma was not always the easiest person to be around. She never asked about my children her great-grandchildren, she really never asked about me. It was like in her world I did not exist unless I was saved and in the manner she expected. I was not fully human in my lost state. She always cared about my salvation but I know that is because she felt she would be held to account by God if her family was not “living right.” My mother’s siblings feel the same. They did not tell us about her death because they do not wish to talk to us. We are lost and unclean. They, unlike my grandma, have never cared about our salvation. They have made no attempts to proselytize, they have just turned their backs and wiped us out of existence. It is like annihilation. We don’t exist to them. We have no worth because we are not exactly their brand of Pentecostal. Plus there is some racism mixed in. I am the brown grandchild and that makes me even less acceptable. They have no desire to have the brown granddaughter and gay grandson at the funeral to ruin their day.

My grandma’s passing hurt me more than I could have anticipated. I was bewildered by the pain. It was so deep and there was so much of it. After a few days, I realized what was happening. I was grieving all of the lost years. I was grieving the relationship I always wanted to have with her. I was feeling the rejection and abandonment of all the time without her. I was reminded of how much my mother’s family dislikes and rejects my brother and myself. All because of religion (well and a dash of racism). How sad that they have allowed this to keep us apart. How sad that she never knew her great-grandchildren. How sad that after losing her daughter she let herself lose her grandson and granddaughter, her only remaining link to my mother. How sad that even though I walked away from it all so long ago it can still reach out and hurt me.

In all of this, I am trying to hold onto the good things I feel I got from my grandmother. I’m tough and resilient just like her. I’m physically strong and strong-minded just like her. When I was a little girl she always marveled at my sturdiness and made me feel like I was invincible because of it. I’m sure there is more but that is all I can see right now.

Because of how my mother’s family is I have strived to be more accepting of my own children. They are all adults now and they all believe different things about God and spirituality. I try my best to always let them know that I love them no matter what. Nothing can tear them away from me, least of all religion.

Books, Compassion, Sexual Abuse, Trauma

Learning About Trauma Responses

April 3, 2019 Deb M

I’m finally getting around to reading “The Body Keeps the Score.” I think I glanced through this book at some point but this time I’m really digging in. At first, it was harder than anticipated because of how it made me feel. I feel sicker and more broken than I did before I started. I did not know it was possible to feel more broken so that was a big shock! Now that I have settled in and I’ve had time to sit with the material I’m starting to feel more compassion for myself. Reading this book has shown me some of the reasons why I am the way I am. I feel like it has given me permission to forgive myself for how my life has unfolded.

Back a few years ago I read “Emotional Freedom” by Judith Orloff. I consider her book to be one of those life-changing books. Reading it truly changed the way I moved within the world. It helped me to disengage from the voices of my past and distinguish between my truth and the truth that was handed to me by my parents and other authority figures. I feel like reading “The Body Keeps the Score” is helping to continue the work I started with “Emotional Freedom.”

What books have you read to help you deal with spiritual/sexual abuse and trauma?

Sexual Abuse, United Pentecostal Church

A Second Victim Steps Forward – Rebecca’s Story

March 23, 2019 Deb M

Today I’m sharing a new story with you. Another victim of Calvary Gospel Church has decided to tell her story. I have always intended this blog to be a place where victims other than myself can also share their experiences. This is Rebecca’s story.

It’s my turn now. I’ve left Debbie high and dry while I’ve done a lot of processing, now it is time to tell my story. I struggle with where to start, as my story starts in the UPC when I was very young. How do I choose what to say in my first post? So please bear with me as I give the highlights and the can of worms will follow.

My parents joined Calvary Gospel United Pentecostal Church when I was in the 3rd grade. Soon after my sister and I were enrolled in the church’s school. My childhood was completely enveloped by the UPC. Parents were expected to take a backseat roll in favor of teaching whatever the church dictated. My parents questioned nothing, and allowed everything, as long as it was within the church’s walls. Needless to say, we were easy targets for anyone wanting to take advantage of vulnerable kids. If we questioned anything or any of the leaders, we were disciplined and labeled rebellious. Calvary Gospel is a tight-knit community, where any independent thought is quashed and shunning is commonplace, it can be frightening to show any independence. I witnessed parents who disowned children and teenagers forced to make public apologies in front of the congregation. It was built into all of us if the “man of god” said it, it was unquestionably true. I could say more about this but I need to move on.

So I was unlucky enough to catch the eye of one of my Sunday School teachers, who also helped out as a youth leader. Everyone knew he favored me and teased me about him constantly. I was called his “little girlfriend”. He would give me rides, leave notes in my school desk, show up at my house or my friend’s houses if he knew I was there, he came to every youth function, every service, everywhere I was.

In the eyes of Calvary Gospel Church, my predator was a great young man, a burgeoning minister. He was also 17 years older than me. I’m going to refer to him as “Ben”. I was 12 the first time he sexually assaulted me. He never even noticed or acknowledged that I never responded when he’d kiss me. I clearly wasn’t enjoying what he was doing and I resisted when he’d make me touch him. He would take my hand and force it onto his pants. This went on for years until we had full intercourse when I was 14. He was 31. I took my first pregnancy test at his job after hours when I was 15. I went on birth control shortly after.

During this time I wrote letters to a friend of mine telling some of what was happening. She told her sister and her older sister went to the pastor. One night after the evening service Ben found me and was very angry. He pushed me up against a car and told me I had to lie. He threatened me, telling me it would be my fault if he got into trouble, that he wouldn’t be able to able to become a minister. I was terrified of being caught, being humiliated, kicked out of the school, and shunned. So I lied. I told Pastor John Grant Sr. that I made it all up. Strangely, Pastor Grant accused the girl who brought him the letters of making them up herself to get attention, and he kicked her out of the choir. I felt completely responsible. It silenced me even more. Sadly this made me that much easier to manipulate, control, and abuse.

I can’t wrap my head around how all of the church adults knew we were a “couple”. How was it appropriate and acceptable for a 33-year-old man to be dating a 16-year-old girl? And of course, the sex continued. He would show up wherever I was. At my school, my job, at my friend’s houses, and my driver’s ed class. He once picked me up and took me to the duplex he shared with a few other guys. He was on top of me in his bed when he heard one of his roommates come home. He shoved me into his closet and shut the door hiding me so his roommate wouldn’t see. I don’t know how long I was in there. Maybe minutes, maybe an hour. It was long enough that he grabbed some old fast food cups and gave me one so he could tell my mom that he took me there to eat instead of where he had really taken me. All I know is, I felt so demeaned, so ashamed, so lost. I felt hopeless. He controlled my every move. I couldn’t date anyone else, I couldn’t go anywhere, I couldn’t do anything, without him. After every sexual contact, he would make me get down on my knees and read Psalm 51 out loud and repent. Thinking of it makes me sick to this day. I hated it. I never liked praying out loud. I never saw the point in wanting others to listen to me. My prayers were between me and god. But I did it, read the Psalm and begged for forgiveness. “Ben” would assure me that he forgave me too.

Now I see the absurdity of it, forgive me for what?! Being a temptation when I was 12?! But in the Calvary Gospel culture, it was my fault. Men were never held accountable for their actions. I saw younger girls that were also preyed on by older men and watched how the men would be sheltered and protected while their victims the young girls would pay the price. It was reinforced again and again that the adults around me knew and would do nothing. Once when I told Pastor Grant what had happened, when I actually built up the courage, he told me not to “rock the boat” because it would “make the church look bad”. I knew I was being eaten alive by this system. I was hopeless, but like any good UPC’er, I made it look good.

I should wrap this up for now. It’s like a plate of spaghetti, one thought/memory leads to another and another…It’s difficult to stay on one path when I have so many stories and details to add. But I want to add my voice to Debbie’s, and many others, that were and probably still are being victimized by the UPC. After all of these years, I’m not the scared and depressed little girl anymore. It’s my time. I will be heard.

Uncategorized

Mother Issues

February 28, 2019 Deb M

I have a feeling this is going to be a hard post to write. It will be hard in part because some of my readers knew my mother and may have even considered her a friend. I’m choosing to write this anyway because I have always tried to be honest here and it’s time to be honest about mom. Through my writing process I feel like she is slipping away from me. I fear that writing about her will forever alter my relationship to her.

My mother passed in 1989. I was 19 years old and that day will forever be cemented as the day my childhood ended. My mother was my entire world. When she passed it felt like everything that tethered me to the earth was gone and I was just floating around on the wind. It felt like all of the color in my life had drained away and all was left was that place I go to when I need to shut down and shut the world away. It felt like nothing would ever be the same again and nothing was. She was everything.

When I was a child it was always mom and I against the world. I now believe we were engaged in some pretty serious trauma bonding. My mother could be very funny and affectionate but she could also be brutal, cruel, and very mentally ill. Sympathy for her upbringing and mental illness has kept me from being totally honest about her with myself. I can honestly say that I cannot remember a time when I was not her caretaker. As a little girl I scrambled to make sure she had her needs met and listened to every worry and sadness she endured. I was acutely aware of how deep her mental illness ran even if I could not articulate it at a young age.

Growing up in my home in the 1970’s it was not unusual to see violence. My mother was physically abusive to my father and he was mentally abusive to her. She thought nothing of flying into a rage and chasing him around with a butcher knife. I was spanked with a belt but that was pretty normal for that time period. What stands out to me is all of the other physical stuff she did. She often pulled my hair, pinched me, and threatened me with hell. As I got older and stopped crying when she spanked me she turned to slapping me. This also was not so unusual for the time period, but a few times she did it hard enough to knock me down to the floor. I can recall asking my father why he left me with her knowing how violent she was and he said she needed me and he did not think she would ever really hurt me. I countered him by saying, “if it was bad enough that you needed to get away then it was bad enough for you to take me away.” He did not agree. He always told me that it was my responsibility to look after her. He couldn’t do it because she was too dangerous for him to be around. What a terrible thing to expect for a child to take on.

She was mentally and emotionally abusive. My mother was very afraid of the rapture and hell was real to her. She would threaten me with hell and missing the rapture for childish offenses like complaining that the shower was too hot. Her and my father bragged about how they hardly ever had to spank me and how I never got into any trouble, like they were expert parents. The reality was I was too afraid to take any risks. Anything I did including not cleaning my room could lead to hell, remember honor thy father and thy mother. Not doing well in school might make me miss the rapture. That is how high the stakes were in my home. My mother was so afraid of hell and the end times that she would lock herself in her room and pray and speak in tongues for hours. I would sit on the floor by the door and wait for her to finish. Praying myself that she would be ok and that god would listen to her prayers. During this time she would play her gospel records and I was not allowed to watch tv or listen to my records. I was alone all the time and then when she got home I was alone some more. This is all happening before I had completed elementary school.

She was scrappy and we were always struggling to pay the bills and keep food on the table. You will never hear me say my mother did not work hard, she was in fact one of the hardest workers I’ve ever know. But even when she was working two jobs we never had what we needed. She was a pick yourself up by your bootstraps kind of woman. She would NEVER ask for help even if it meant exposing me to extreme hunger and deprivation. She was raised to distrust the government and so she wanted nothing to do with social workers or government aid. My mother had so much pride in her gritty determination and I admire her for that, but it is time for me to get real about her choices. It mattered more to her that no one know our business than it did that I went to school hungry. She once became extremely angry with me for telling a neighbor that we had no food. I was somewhere around 1st grade. I learned a hard lesson about keeping my mouth shut. She had family members around that she could have asked for help but her pride made it hard for her to go there. So instead we twisted in the wind. More often than not my dinner was boiled potatoes with just a little salt on them. not the kind of nutrition a growing child needs. I still cannot understand why at times we had more than enough and at other times we had nothing. I can only say that she would cry on my shoulder and I would tell her mommy it is alright even as my stomach churned. I was always telling her it would be alright. I was always assuring her that I didn’t need anything. She was tough, but I was tougher.

When I was molested she did nothing to help me. She showed me no compassion and called me names. She got angry with me and I think she was feeling ashamed of me. Her and my stepdad said some really awful things to me, things I cannot bring myself to repeat. I feel this happened in part because she never really let me be a child. Both my parents treated me like I was an adult and used my intelligence to absolve them of their crimes of not parenting. She did not try to get me help in any way and we went for a long stretch where she did not talk to me. I was 12. The worst thing that had ever happened to me had just happened and I could not go to her. I had no one to go to except myself. When I got older and I spoke to both my parents about this issue they seemed to not understand that it was child abuse and that I was in no way old enough to consent. I started to grow cold when the realization came over me that after caring for her for so long and listening to all of her woes she would not be available to do the same for me. Our relationship only worked one way. On two different occasions a boy of color wanted to date me in a very puppy love kind of way she called me a horrible name. I don’t even want to write it here and I’m sure you can guess what it was. I had no idea what that term even meant but she spit the words out at me and looked at me like I had done something really wrong if these boys were interested in me. She was so flawed and yet all through my childhood she would give me that look, that look that told me she thought I was disgusting. I tried to tell her that these boys were nice and they only wanted to talk to me on the phone but she wouldn’t hear anything I had to say.

She checked out of church but still insisted that I go. She never felt accepted at Calvary Gospel and eventually she just quit going, But because she was worried about my soul and eternal damnation she pushed me to keep going. I desperately wanted her to be proud of me so I did, plus I was scared not to. She knew that the people there were both racist and classist, and she knew they treated her as less than and that is why she left. Somehow none of those worries applied to me. Even after Steve Dahl molested me she continued to allow me to attend for years. I can tell you that if my child was molested by an adult I would be sure that my child was pulled out of that atmosphere completely. There would be no second chances. She knew the congregation was full of vipers, mean spirited awful people and yet she continued to push. The message I got from her and my dad was that I was strong even stronger than they were. My dad could not take my mothers meanness but I could be expected to weather it. He kept telling me that if he took me away it would kill her and he couldn’t do that to her, but what about me? At times I feel neither of them saw me as fully human.

I withered away before her eyes. When I look back at photos of myself during my early teen years I am so skinny. The bones in my neck stick out and my arms look like twigs. Once I got older and could work for my own money I was much better off and it shows in the photos. My eyes have dark circles around them and in every shot I just look haunted. Around this time three things happened, my mother married an alcoholic and had another child, and she started to get sick. She has always had bad allergies and in her 30’s she developed asthma. Once she remarried and especially after my little brother came into the picture she just checked out of parenting me. She let me go on auto pilot unless something happened to temporarily snap her out of it. I became an after thought and soon everything else became more pressing. Jim, my stepdad, liked guns and so they started amassing a collection. He was depressed and wanted a new truck so she bought him one. I don’t think she realized how bad his condition was until after they were married. He couldn’t work and smoked like a chimney. His smoking effected her health and mine and yet she did nothing to stop him. They would fight and I would hide just like when I was little. I barely ever came out of my room and when I did it was always weird. My stepdad would sit in the living room and watch porn after my mother went to bed.. She would often go to bed early when she was working a lot or when she was sick. I couldn’t get to any room in our house including our bathroom without walking through the living room. I was so embarrassed and he just sat there staring at the screen. I feel he did it on purpose because he wanted me to stay in my room. He made it clear from the beginning that he wanted my mother but not a daughter. I complained to her about how antisocial he was towards me and she would throw her hands up as if she had no power. I told her about the porn and she got angry with him but talked to me about it more in the context of, “Men, I don’t know what to do about him.” I was about 13 or 14 at the time. I guess what I am trying to say is that she could never be depended upon to act. She was more like the child and I was more like the adult sounding the alarm to her and telling her how inappropriate things were. I could never have friends over or have anyone spend the night.

I never went to the dentist and rarely went to the doctor. My mother had many health issues and always sought treatment, I cannot sat why I never went to the doctor except that I did not complain.

At age 15 I moved out of her house and in with my father. I was very aware at the time that this was the worst thing I could do to her. She saw my father as a deadbeat (he was), a scoundrel and a cheat. By now I’m sure you can sense how bad things must’ve been for me to make this choice. I came home from school one day to find my little brother who was still in diapers standing in the road. I was embarrassed that the other kids saw this and hurried to scoop him up and bring him inside. Once inside it became clear to me that my stepdad was drunk. He started laughing at me in my distress and I took my baby brother to my bedroom and waited for my mom’s return. When she got home from wherever she was I lost my mind and told her exactly what I felt. As much as I felt I needed to protect my brother I knew I needed to protect myself. I told her I was going and asked my dad to come get me. She cried and I felt bad for her, I felt guilty. A small part of me hoped this would wake her up that she would choose me and James my brother over Jim and his addictions. She stayed with Jim, she let me go. It isn’t like we did not see each other or have a relationship, we did but it was never the same.

If you are still here with me I appreciate it. I know this is a long post. I’m starting to see my mother as a irredeemable character in my life story. Where in the past it was so easy for me to feel sympathy for her and cut her some slack. Now all I can feel is pain for my child self. She never really mothered me, she left me alone all the time starting around age 5, she let me go hungry, and she was so consumed with her own issues she could not or would not help me when I needed it most. She was judgmental, harsh, and obsessed with her own life. She gave me some gifts but the burdens way outweigh anything good. She left me too early. I do not blame her for her early death but I blame her for staying with a toxic man for so long whose habits contributed so much to her illness. I am angry with her for not putting James and myself first. I’m angry because of her learned helplessness. I grieve because in order for me to heal and understand myself fully I have to get brutally honest about her. Even now the little girl in me is begging me not to write this. She is making excuses and showing me evidence to refute my claims. But the evidence doesn’t hold up, there is just too much bad there. I still love my mother but I no longer see her as the heroine of my story, now I know who the real heroine is, it is me.

Childhood, Depression, Fear, Justice, Sexual Abuse, United Pentecostal Church

The Walking Wounded

February 25, 2019February 27, 2019 Deb M

I am one of the walking wounded. I have been attempting to write a book. Even though the process of writing can at times make me feel all alone I know that there are so many others like me. I just finished listening to the NPR podcast “Believed.” This podcast covers the story of Larry Nassar and his many victims. Although their story takes place in the world of competitive gymnastics there are so many similarities. Last week was an awful week for me. I battled my demons daily as I continued to write and try to unwind the story of my childhood. ITunes helpfully suggested this podcast to me and I’m so glad I took a chance on it. Now if you are like so many people in my life you might ask why would I put myself through that? Well because listening to other victims tell their story makes me feel less alone and strange in the world. The podcast was hard to listen to. I could relate to many of the women and their experiences. They inspired me to keep going and their journey gave me hope that maybe my story can have a better ending than it has had so far.

My friends and family worry about me. People tell me to take breaks and to take care of myself. They worry that telling this story might hurt me more than it helps me. I’m grateful for everyone in my life who has reached out to check in and give me advice. The thing is I cannot quit. I carried this trauma inside me for decades and now is the time to give it a voice. I cannot sit back and do nothing when I know that young people are continuing to be abused in the church I grew up in and others like it. My abuser is still out there doing god knows what. This isn’t about revenge but about justice. Justice for myself and all of the others like me.

Right now I will speak anywhere I am asked to speak and share my story anywhere I can get a platform. I am afraid because I don’t know if I have the skills to make my book a reality and I know for a fact that I am not a public speaker but the time for fear is over. Fear can be really hard to let go of, especially when you are raised on fear and it is what you know best. When you are told to keep yourself small and to go unnoticed it can be hard to step into the sunshine. So I keep going. I do it for myself and all of the survivors of Calvary Gospel and the UPC organization. Most importantly I do it for her…

Justice, United Pentecostal Church

Processing

February 12, 2019 Deb M

The good news is I am continuing to write. The bad news is I have spent pretty much my entire day processing. I feel like my brain has two parallel tracks. The child’s mind track and my adult mind track. They both exist at the same time but hold two very different opinions. When I seek to tell the story from the perspective of my child’s mind I see my abuser as a confused man. A man taken over by his impulses, I see him as partly sympathetic. When I allow the adult part of my mind to do the talking she has a much different story to tell. She sees him as an evil manipulator who stole my childhood and consumed it with relish. The child within seeks to understand why he would commit such acts and assumes he could not help himself. The adult sees each step of the path and how his decisions one by one added up to the crime he committed. Right now at this moment, I hate them all, all the adults who have let me down. I teeter on the edge of falling into an ocean of my own tears. There is a loneliness in all of this. There is a feeling that no one can really understand the depth of the damage that was done to me. Even though I know there are others I feel freakish and like a sideshow. My heart weeps for my 11-year-old self. How could she have been so alone and neglected that Steve looked like the best option for friendship? Where were all of the adults?

After I finished writing for the day I painted my nails and watched a little television. I was trying to distract myself from the heaviness in my chest. In a few minutes, I intend to do some yoga to try to bring some calm. I’m trying to maintain some sense of balance. The reality is I think I could work on this story day and night only taking breaks to eat and go to the bathroom. It is burning a hole through me and it won’t let me be. It’s all I can think about. As I’m pounding this blog post out on my laptop justice pops into my mind. I could not get justice from the law and what if I can’t get justice from writing this book? What if I never get justice? What if I put all this down on the page and it just sits there? We have seen what has happened within the Catholic church and now the Southern Baptist church, when will it be our turn? Who will bust the story wide open for us? All of us broken souls searching for justice. Right now I feel like the UPC is laughing at us. It feels like something has got to give but it can be hard to believe that things will ever be different. When will they face justice? Let it be soon.

C-PTSD, Uncategorized, United Pentecostal Church

Fighting My Way Through Old Trauma

February 9, 2019 Deb M

Hello dear readers! Although I have not been doing much writing here I have been writing. I have been attempting to hone my skills and get better at accessing the emotions that go along with telling this story. The cost of doing so has been high. The last couple of days I have been writing about my salvation experience among other things and I’ve been trying to do it from my heart rather than just telling the facts. I’ve been opening rooms long locked with yellow tape across them saying, “Do not enter, crime scene!” I am at home alone, except for my doggie companion, most days and I prefer to write when I am alone because it requires a level of solitude and quiet I can’t get at a coffee shop. That being said being alone when writing about trauma can be scary. My C-PTSD has been triggered and I have been having flashbacks and a sense of dread follows me around everywhere I go, it is very hard to shake. This is the very reason I put off this process for so long. I feel like I’m giving birth to a monster. Yesterday I had to stop and ask myself is it fair to unleash this awful story to the world, is it my job to contain the pain and suffering? I know that I have to let the story go out from me if for no other reason than it might save someone else from the same pain. My story might help another survivor, I do understand the power of that, but there is a part of me that feels guilty. Whenever I write about this topic there is a sense of relief. I feel lighter as I sit at my desk and bang away at the keys of my laptop, but once I get up and start moving around in the world that relief goes away and anxiety takes it place. It is so weird to really not believe something in your mind and I know that what they taught me is not true, but my lizard brain sure does believe it! C-PTSD is predictable as the sun coming up in the morning.

Yesterday I was writing about the Mark IV films. Really just a sentence or two in passing. To do the writing I had to look up a quote from one of the films and that was all it took. Was it seeing the DVD cover art or something else that brought that damn song into my head? If you are familiar with the films you know what I’m talking about. BTW please don’t mention the title of the film in your comments it really makes it worse for me the more I am exposed to it. All day long I was trying to get that song out of my head, once it is there it is almost impossible to remove. Then I had to fight off the cascading triggers that come after that one gets in. When I went to bed it was still there insistent that I pay attention and I had to sing other songs to myself in the dark so I could fall asleep.

All of this recent writing has made one thing very clear, it is amazing that I am as normal as I am. How can you grow and develop normally when you believe that everything about you is broken and wrong? How can you have a normal childhood and adolescence when you are afraid all the time? I have often beaten myself up in my adult life for not being as accomplished as other people, for not having a formal education, and for not having experiences that other adults see as normal and expected. I have to keep reminding myself to be fair with myself. I will never be like everyone else.

One thing I know that I need to do is some more reading about recovering from cults. I have always been interested in the stories of people who have survived cult experiences and the question has always lingered in my head, “Is the UPC a cult?” My gut says yes, but then I see people online and in person who say no, it is just a destructive church, but really what is the difference. The survivors in my life have experienced the same outcomes as people who escaped from cults. I say if it walks like a duck…One thing I know for sure is that I am done making excuses for people and I’m done with giving anyone cover.

Crime, Sexual Abuse, Shame, Southern Baptist Church, United Pentecostal Church

Timing

January 1, 2019January 1, 2019 Deb M

I have been thinking about this blog for days and today especially. My writing has slowed down to a trickle as I have been dealing with new parts of the trauma unearthed during the writing process. 2018 has been a weird year. It has been amazing in some respects and a horror show in others. One of the biggest lessons I learned this year is that they (The UPC) can still hurt me. I’m not talking about physically but emotionally. I was caught off guard multiple times by things I learned about Calvary Gospel and what has and is going on there. They continue to surprise me and I thought I was way beyond that. I participate in many online support groups like Ex-evangelical and some UPC specific groups. In those groups there are always folks who want these Christian organizations to reform themselves and acknowledge the pain they have caused. I think there was a corner of my heart that wanted that as well, but that is not how I feel now. I have been watching as this year has played out and what I see is organization after organization covering up crime on the backs of the abused. My wish for 2019 is that more people will feel emboldened to tell their stories and report. I want our laws and government to reflect the idea that just because you are a church doesn’t mean you get a free pass. My wish for myself is that I can continue to fight this fight even when it takes me to the darkest of places.

I have been thinking about how they keep us quiet. My younger self had this fear that if I told anyone the church might say ugly things about me and I think part of that fear still lives although on life support. They might say I was rebellious, or they might tell you how I snuck into movies in highschool or that I wore clear nail polish one summer, or worst of all they might say I was never really saved. When I look at it closely I know that nothing I did as a child would even register with most people as being a bad thing. These are the things they use to discredit women and girls within the UPC. She wears her skirts a little too short don’t you think? She asks too many questions or the wrong questions. She listens to the radio when her parents aren’t at home. Why do we care what they say? Well I guess the best answer is these are the people who raised us. We have so many shared experiences with these people and shame can be hard to shake off. Especially when it is served to you by those who are supposed to care for you. While women are discredited and condemned for any tiny little thing the perpetrators are given grace and forgiveness without stain or scar. They are not overly scrutinized or raked over the coals they are tolerated and enabled to abuse again and again. They are promoted and exalted even when they leave a trail of wounded in their wake. This is not ok.

I’m sorry if this seems a little rambly, I have had lots of thoughts swirling around in my head and I have been avoiding this blog and all writing really for months. I’m going to end my first blog post of 2019 with a reminder. I am here and so is this blog for you, the survivor. If you want a platform to tell your story please reach out to me and I would be happy to help in any way I can. I can’t promise that it will be all roses, healing and light, but I can promise that I will be here with you every step of the way. There are so many of us here waiting to hear your story and waiting to offer support. I think the timing is right, let’s make this the year we hold them all accountable.

Childhood, Confusing, Fear, Shame, United Pentecostal Church

Listening To That Inner Voice

October 20, 2018 Deb M

During the process of writing about my childhood I’m finding more questions than answers. Opening the door to my past has caused me to remember things I have not thought about for a long time. Many of these events seemed weird at the time and now through my adult eyes they seem inappropriate. As these memories bubble up into the now I have asked people if they remember and if it all seems odd to them as well. In a recent conversation a friend and I discussed how we remember two things from our childhood growing up in the church, fear and sex.

For the lips of a strange woman drop as a honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil. Proverbs 5:3

I started attending Calvary Christian Academy when I was 11 years old and in the 6th grade. We started attending the church when I was about 8. I was excited about starting a new school and finally being a part of the in-group. The principal at that point was Brother Rutherford. He seemed nice enough but had some strange quirks about him. Every morning we would read a passage together as a group. The goal was to memorize the verses and be able to repeat them back by the end of the month. If you wanted any extra freedoms or honor roll you had to have those verses memorized and signed off on. The thing is the verses we studied seem really strange when I look back on them now. The Bible is a long book and full of topics to focus on so why these verses were chosen is beyond me.

Drink waters out of thine own cistern, and running waters out of thine own well.

Let thy fountains be dispersed abroad, and rivers of waters in the streets.

Let them be only thine own, and not strangers’ with thee.

Let thy fountain be blessed: and rejoice with the wife of thy youth. Proverbs 5:15-18

Every morning we would stand and say the pledge and then read our verses. We read them as a mixed group out loud. I can remember being pretty embarrassed to read these things in front of the boys. It did not help that the older boys would tell bawdy jokes about them and snicker and laugh at my discomfort.

Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe; let her breasts satisfy thee at all times; and be thou ravished always with her love.

And why wilt thou, my son, be ravished with a strange woman, and embrace the bosom of a stranger? Proverbs 5:19-20

I have to ask if the men working in the school got some kind of perverse pleasure from watching teen girls recite these verses both as a group and then one on one. When we reached the end of the month either our supervisor Roy Grant or Brother Rutherford would come to our little office and listen to us recite the verses back to them. I can remember being really uncomfortable. I was very good at memorization so that wasn’t the issue, it was all of those breasts and lips.

O that thou wert as my brother, that sucked the breasts of my mother! when I should find thee without, I would kiss thee; yea, I should not be despised.

I would lead thee, and bring thee into my mother’s house, who would instruct me: I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate. Song of Solomon 8:1-2

We would have a sort of chapel time and Brother Rutherford or Roy Grant would preach a mini sermon or teach a lesson. Often the subject matter would have something to do with the verses we were working on. So it isn’t that the verses were not explained, they were but I still have to ask, why was this something I needed to read/know at age 11? Why so much focus on cheating spouses and sexual love? Wouldn’t it be more beneficial for us to be studying the fruits of the spirit or maybe the sermon on the mount?

We have a little sister, and she hath no breasts: what shall we do for our sister in the day when she shall be spoken for?

If she be a wall, we will build upon her a palace of silver: and if she be a door, we will inclose her with boards of cedar.

I am a wall, and my breasts like towers: then was I in his eyes as one that found favour. Song of Solomon 8: 8-10

I have turned this over in my head time and again and I just don’t get it. Why all the verses about breasts? Of all of the topics available why this kind of thing over and over? If there is one thing I have learned in my life it is that where there is smoke there is fire. If it makes you feel uncomfortable there is a reason for that and you should listen to that inner voice. I do not know who picked those verses. It could have been Brother Rutherford or Pastor Grant but either way I think it was inappropriate. I could understand if we were older like 17 or so or if it was a class for people about to be married.

A side note, we always read from the KJV and we were taught that the Proverbs verses were about staying faithful to ones wife, and the Song of Solomon verses were about marital love. Imagine my surprise when I found that some view the Song of Solomon verses to be about Christ. That is not how it was taught to us.

Brother Rutherford and his family eventually left and I think they moved back to Texas. I do not remember why but I do remember that it seemed kind of sudden and fast. After that we had a new principal and the verses changed to more normal content.

You might ask why I am writing this entry, it is because as I try to figure out the past these things come to mind and then I can’t get them out of my mind. I comb over them over and over again trying to make sense of it all. Why did they focus so much on sexual topics? Why the pervy undertones? They had to have known that a young girl would feel uncomfortable reading those verses out loud, especially given how sheltered we were. If anyone remembers the Rutherfords and knows why they left I would love to know.

C-PTSD, Childhood, Sexual Abuse, United Pentecostal Church

I Have Been Away

October 5, 2018October 10, 2018 Deb M

I have been away from this blog for a little bit. Truth be told I think I needed to take a break from thinking about it all for a while. I have been working hard on political activism all spring and summer, pouring all of my energy into making the world a better place. I really try to keep politics out of this blog because I do not want to alienate any survivors who might find help here. That being said I am also devoted to honesty and telling my story from that place and current events definitely have affected that.

All of my social media is awash in Kavanaugh coverage. Because of the volunteer work that I do within my community, I am on social media a lot. I connect with others online about actions, events, and the news. When I’m away from it for even one day I feel like when I return I have all of these fires to put out and folks to support. This summer has required me to give all the emotional support I can both to those I love and to myself. I count myself lucky to have such an amazing partner who makes sure that I eat, sleep, and smile as much as possible. It helps to know that he is beside me every step of the way. He also keeps tabs on my abuser which is very comforting to me. Knowing that Steve Dahl loves Madison and visits often has made my home feel unsafe.

As I have observed everything going on with Kavanaugh I hear echoes of things that have been said to me regarding my abuse. It weighs heavy on my chest like a large boulder that I cannot lift off. Some days rage threatens every moment and every breath I take, other days I have to try desperately to keep the tears from flowing because I know that if they start I will not be able to turn them off. Then there are the days when I sit and stare into space, those days are the worst. I feel immobilized, frozen, like prey trying not to be detected by a world that feels unsafe to me.

I have heard people say they do not understand why Dr. Ford did not report when everything happened to her all of those years ago. I cannot say that reporting would have helped. Often when someone is caught not much happens to them and the accuser pays a very heavy price if she is even believed at all. What I hear those in power saying is, we believe this happened to her but we do not care. That was my experience. No one ever said they did not believe me, they just did not care. They still do not care. What they care about is protecting their male ally. They care about male authority and the sacredness of their organization. They don’t care about me and they never did.

I hear some floating the idea that maybe she is just mistaken. It was really some other guy who just looks like Kavanaugh. I’m here to say that is unlikely. I remember my trauma very well, in fact, I remember it better than almost anything in my life. That is how trauma works. I remember what I was wearing, what he was wearing, where we were, what it smelled like, and what music was playing in the background. I might not be able to tell you the date but I know what season it was and what grade I was in. C-PTSD will ensure that you never ever forget.

The survivor knows that when she comes forward she is about to stand trial. There is always a price to be paid when you are a truth teller. Dr. Ford has paid and will continue to pay a heavy price for coming forward with her truth, for trying to do the right thing. When I started writing this blog last winter I braced myself for the backlash and it came like a storm into my life. I was accused of trying to ruin a good man’s life. They said he has led a clean good life since taking my childhood away. Apparently, the crimes committed against me mean nothing because he has been a good guy ever since. Remember these men rarely offend only once. Some questioned whether I even attended the church at the age I claimed all of this happened. All they need to do to figure that out is to look at their Sunday School, School, and Baptism records. The worst part is who came at me. Men mostly, many who have never met me, and some who knew me throughout childhood. Some of them wanting to protect the church and worst many who wanted to protect their friend. They have tried to shift the blame to me and my parents. They are happy for anyone to bear the blame as long it isn’t pastor Grant or Steve Dahl. They have been full of advice for me about how I should forgive for my own sake, take it to Jesus, and get on with my life.

The silver lining to this storm is women so many women and a few men. By telling my story I have opened the door and now I have so many allies. I have been telling my story since it happened but when I brought it completely out into the sunlight women came from all over to give me love, support, and even better they stood beside me and confronted my abuser. I hope that Dr. Ford sees all of the women protesting, holding vigils, sending her postcards, and sending her love and support. I believe her and I’m hoping my silver lining can be hers as well.