My heart has been stirring for the last few days as new allegations of sexual abuse and misconduct from within the United Pentecostal Church have come to light. Sometimes it seems never ending and somedays I tell myself that I’m too tired or angry to speak but today is not one of those days. April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month and I feel that this is the perfect time to remind people that behind all of these stories is a real victim/survivor and their families. I watch as people spar over what the Bible says and who is a licensed minister within the UPC and who is not. I watch as David Bernard ducks and weaves to avoid being held accountable for what happened within the organization he leads. In the midst of all of this people discuss whether or not the victim is to blame and some sling arrows saying things like, “It takes two to tango.” I wish I could say that I am surprised but I am not. From my personal experience the UPC will never miss the opportunity to blame the victim and support the perpetrators. I believe it is all about money and saving their precious reputation. Nepotism has long been a problem within the organization and they do not seem to be in any hurry to solve it. They definitely are not in a hurry to take responsibility when their sin is brought out into the light.
Minors cannot give consent and cannot be held responsible for the thoughts and actions of adults. When I was abused within the Madison Wisconsin congregation I was 11 years old and very modestly dressed. I had never held hands with a boy and actually did not really have much interest in boys at that point. I was an innocent and none of that kept me safe from an abusive man and the pastor and others who did not report it to the police. I did not cause this grown man to fall into sin and neither did any of the survivors who followed after me. The other thing that isn’t often talked about is the lifetime of pain and trauma that awaits survivors of sexual abuse. It isn’t a little thing. It changes who you are and for many of us it drove us away from the church. We became the focus of gossip instead of being the focus of love and compassion.
When I think of these new survivors and all the ones who came before I send a little prayer out to the universe. I wish them love and compassion, healing and wholeness, understanding and friendship. I hope they have someone in their lives to tell them it isn’t their fault and if they do not have a person like that I hope they find my blog. I am grateful for those who continue to drag these stories out into the light. I am also thankful for those who continue to fight when I cannot. I may not always say thank you but I see your work and I appreciate your support.
“You’re not a victim for sharing your story. You are a survivor setting the world on fire with your truth. And you never know who needs your light, your warmth, and raging courage.” — Alex Elle
National Child Abuse Hotline Call or text hotline: 800.422.4453
While all of this was going on with SD I was going through many other transitions. We moved to a new rented house. My mother felt it was an upgrade but I did not. It was old and always dark due to our lack of lighting. My bedroom was on the second floor. There was a third bedroom on the same level as mine and also a full bathroom. The third bedroom served as a sort of catch-all junk room. This is when my mother started to acquire more dogs. Muffy had passed away after being lost in a snowstorm and then hit by a car. I was heartbroken. My mother brought home a puppy to try to cheer me up. His name was Billy and I loved him. She also added another male named Star and a female named Sheba. My mother had a big heart for animals, sort of. She would give them a home but then not take them to the vet regularly. We never had money so I don’t really understand why she thought adding more mouths to feed was a good idea. At times the dogs would go to the bathroom in the spare room. It smelled so bad and I would go in and clean it up because neither my mother nor Jim seemed inclined to do it. My room was always fairly clean because I had almost no possessions. The items I held dear were my cassette player, my tiny radio shaped like a grand piano, and my books.
At some point during the time that SD was abusing me, I started to receive Harlequin Romances every month. I never signed up or paid for them and so now I have to wonder if SD had them sent to me as part of the grooming process. My mother didn’t seem to care so I gobbled them up. I loved reading and could finish a book every day during the summer months. When I was bored I would stand on my bed and sing into my hairbrush pretending to be on stage. There was a big mirror on top of my dresser and so I would look into that and sing Amy Grant. Every night before bed I would write in my diary. It was a white Precious Moments diary with a little gold lock. The pages had gold edging on them and I thought it was so pretty. That diary was the only place I had to really express what I was going through. When my mother picked the lock and read it I was so betrayed. It makes me sad to think that she did not see the abuse that happened to me. She didn’t seem capable of showing compassion. She just saw that I was writing about sex and “dirty things”. I cataloged each experience with SD as they happened and how I felt about it. Sometimes I would write messages to God asking for help or forgiveness. Eventually, my mother caught me experimenting with my own body and she hit the roof. It makes me so angry when I look back at it all. It is normal for kids to experiment at that age and when they have been abused it is even more likely. She was angry and she ridiculed me and even brought Jim into the conversation. For weeks afterward, they would make jokes about me and because of this, it was finally driven home that I could not trust my mom and that she no longer cared for me. I was embarrassed and felt exposed just like I did when she showed my father my bloody underwear when I got my period. She did not value my privacy or the bonds between a mother and child. She did not seem to understand boundaries. My mom and Jim fought a lot and at times that spilled over to them ganging up on me.
When I needed to escape I would jump on my bike and ride all over the neighborhood. My bike always symbolized freedom and speed. When I was feeling angry I would ride as fast as I could just to get the rage energy out. One day I hit an uneven piece of sidewalk and flew face-first into a tree. My forehead, nose, and chin were very bloody. I don’t remember if anyone was home and I also don’t remember anyone helping me tend to it. I was really embarrassed about it when I went to church the next Sunday. People kept asking me what happened but they seemed more amused than concerned. It took forever for the scabs to be totally gone. When I wasn’t riding my bike I would walk through the green space behind our house and over to the shopping center. The shopping center had a library and a Pharmacy. Before I went to the library I would walk through the pharmacy and see what new candy and doodads they had. Then I would go over to the library and sink into my corner
During this time when I went on the road with SD he always left me in the car when he went in to see clients. All of his clients were churches and so I would hang out in the car, usually parked on the street, and wait for him. Sometimes I would be out there for a very long time. I always brought my library books with me so I had something to do while he was gone. Sometimes I would listen to my tape recorder if I had enough batteries. It didn’t bother me much because I was so accustomed to being alone. I was afraid sometimes when it would start to get dark and I was out in the car in a strange place by myself. Before long SD would breeze back in and we would be on the road again. When we arrived back in Madison SD would always park a block or so away from my house so he could kiss me and say his goodbyes. At times we would talk about my mom and my home situation. He would tell me that someday I would be grown and I would not have to live there anymore. He would tell me that it would only be another 7 years or so and then I could move out, proving he understood exactly how old I was. Other times he would speak to me about the condition of my clothing. One particular day he commented on how much dog hair was on my clothing. I told him that I did my best to look nice, he said he knew that but I could tell he was frustrated by my appearance. It was also during one of these goodbye talks that he told me that I would be perfect if I just lost some of my belly weight. I wasn’t even 100lbs at this point. I have never had a flat stomach even when I was a size 3. I have never forgotten that conversation. I can see us clearly in my mind’s eye. I know exactly where we were and I remember what I was wearing. That small comment marked me and made feel bad about my body. After saying his goodbyes he would pull into my mother’s driveway and let me out reminding me not to let on that there was anything going on between us. Often my cheeks were red from his stubble and my clothes were shifted around all weird. If my mother was awake we might chat a minute and say goodnight. She never asked me much but did comment once on how red my cheeks were. I was shocked! It never occurred to me that they were red and I told SD about it. I made up some excuse to my mother and hurried off to bed. She never asked about it again. Stepping out of his car and into my house was like moving from sunlight into the night in one moment. Yes, I was being abused, but at least he talked with me and we laughed. When I walked through my front door the house was usually dark and silent. I would grab my oil lamp and slowly and quietly make my way up the stairs to my bedroom. Once in my room, I would fall to my knees to pray. One night my mother knocked on my door and asked me through the door why I cried and prayed so much. I had just returned from a Sunday night service and I was feeling pretty heavy-hearted. I told her I had a lot on my mind and she seemed satisfied with that. I don’t think it ever occurred to her that she was my example. She taught me that through all those nights I waited for her by her bedroom door. I would pray for her and my father to come back to church, I would pray for SD, and I would pray for forgiveness. I worried about my mother’s salvation and I worried about all the fighting I heard between her and Jim. Even as she became meaner and made me the butt of her and Jim’s jokes I continued to hope that we could repair our closeness and I hoped maybe one day she would leave Jim like she left my father. She did eventually leave him but not in the way I wanted her too.
I started the 6th grade in public school and then partway through the year, I transitioned over to the Christian school. Sixth grade was difficult because we moved away from the kids I had known all the way through elementary school and so I started middle school not knowing anyone. I believe that I am very lucky to have had a good foundational public school education. I was ok with the move. I was ready for change. In elementary school, I had a few friends but I was also frequently bullied. I was picked on for being poor and for wearing worn clothing or generic cheap clothing. After my boobs came in I was picked on by the boys incessantly. There was a lot of bra snapping and one boy, in particular, was fond of calling me titties. I was more than ready for a fresh start. I liked middle school. I played the clarinet and I enjoyed all of the electives I was allowed to choose. I felt like a big kid and that was pretty cool. The downside was racism. All during my elementary school days people both children and adults would ask me, “What are you?” Meaning you don’t look totally white. Usually, they would start guessing and no one ever guessed right. They would often guess mulatto (their word not mine), mixed, Hawaiian was another popular guess, but never Mexican. It became a game for me. I would collect all of their guesses and then tell them, Mexican! I enjoyed seeing the looks of confusion and bewilderment on their faces. Madison did not have many Mexicans and so no one suspected that. I never endured racism during elementary school but I did watch my father deal with it. I remember one day we went into a men’s store to purchase a new suit. I stood with him fidgeting and trying to be patient. He knew what he wanted and was looking around trying to get someone’s attention. The store was fairly empty and yet no one came to help us. Finally, he was able to rope someone into talking with him. I watched as he pulled wads of cash out of his pocket and told the man how he had money and he was sick of people assuming he did not. The salesperson seemed nervous and unsure of how to deal with this angry customer. We slowly walked out, my dad mumbling the whole way, we had no suit in hand. My dad had a chip on his shoulder but who could blame him? He would often tell me how no one expected him to be capable of anything but he was going to show them all what he could do. He would recount how he came here alone from Mexico and how he taught himself to read and write English. At this point I’d listen and feel sad for him, by the time I was a teen and hearing these tales for the 1000th time my eyes would glaze over.
Sixth-grade girls can be incredibly cruel. My new school placed me in a bilingual class because my maiden name is Rodriquez. This is kind of funny because I spoke zero Spanish except for what I had learned on Sesame Street. Uno, dos, tres…My father wanted to forget his life in Mexico and so he only spoke English around me. I kept pleading my case to the teachers but they did not immediately believe me. After about two weeks they pulled me from that class and put me into an English speaking homeroom. The Mexican girls would taunt me and call me half-breed and they claimed that I thought I was better than them because I was placed with the white girls. The white girls also called me half-breed and just kind of shunned me. I was dealing with it ok until the Mexican girls turned violent. One day on the playground one of the girls told me she was going to beat me up. All-day at school my stomach churned and I would have done anything to not have to ride the bus home from school. About five girls got off the bus a stop earlier than they usually did so they could beat me up. They chased me from the bus into an empty lot. The bus driver yelled at them from his window but then just drove away leaving me to endure the blows and kicks. I curled up in a ball on the gravel and just waited for it to be over. My mother had views on fighting. She told me I should not get into fights and to be the bigger person and I was more afraid of her than I was of these girls. My father would have said to fight back because we are fighters. He was an ex-boxer and had taught me to swing my fists. In the hierarchy of my family, my mother ruled overall so I was more worried about her feelings on the matter. As a side note, my mother was a violent person. She and my father got physical and she was always the one to instigate. She also got into plenty of fights when she was a kid but she wanted me to be different. I managed to get up and start to flee the couple of houses distance to my home. They chased me and Jim just so happened to walk out of the house and see what was going on. He yelled at them and they ran away. I was humiliated and covered in dirt, gravel, and spit. I went inside and cleaned myself up. My mother was not home and waiting for her was partly scary and partly I just wanted my mom. When she arrived Jim told her what he saw and she called me down from my bedroom to talk. She wasn’t too angry with me and agreed to go to the school tomorrow to talk with the principal. She did not get too much satisfaction from that meeting. They explained that they could only help if it happened at school. My mother was frustrated but she understood and she came up with another solution. Her solution involved me taking the city bus every day. I hated this! It took me twice as long to get there and did not save me from the bullying behavior at school. Once it got around that there had been a fight and that I had not won things became much harder.
I told some kids and adults at church about what was happening. I asked them to pray for me that things would get better. They had an even better solution, they had their own school and I could go there. No one gets bullied there (a lie) and I would no longer have to be around worldly kids. That last part sounded appealing. One thing I was teased about was how little I knew about pop culture. Because I was trying to be godly I had stopped listening to the radio and watching tv for the most part. I had nothing to talk to these kids about. I floated the idea to my mother and at first, she was not too excited about it. It wasn’t cheap. But hey the church could solve that problem too, they had scholarships available! This seemed like exactly what I needed. My mother found someone to make me the uniforms and I was ready to go. I had NO idea what I was getting into and to this day I view this as one of the worst decisions I ever made. All of my church friends were super excited for me to be joining them at school. Calvary Christian Academy was one of the most boring places you could ever spend time, so the excitement of having a new student was extreme. I received so much positive feedback. The message I received was that I was finally taking my Christianity seriously, I was finally fully committing to the church, I was finally in!
I think they might have viewed this all differently had they known what was about to happen with SD. At the time the church would have said that they had the school to protect their children from the world. I believe the truth is that they had the school to exert complete control over their offspring. Cults in general do not like their members to have any outside influences and Calvary Gospel is no different. Thinking outside of the church’s beliefs was not allowed and you were expected to reside in lockstep with the pastor at all times. Opening the school made it even easier to train children to fall in line with the absolute control of the church and then one day they would be adult followers who would never even think of leaving. If you are born into a family within the Calvary Gospel, and then you attend the school, by the time you are an adult you have almost no contacts outside the church. It makes leaving really hard. The church is the entirety of your community.
This is the point in my life when my light was almost completely snuffed out. Long gone was the little girl making dandelion crowns and in her place was left an empty shell. My mother worked hard but there was never enough. You can only eat so much baloney. Jim could never keep a job and so he was not bringing any real income into the house. He did like toys and my mother did what she could to buy him what he wanted much like she had done with me when I was a child. There was always money for another dog or a new gun but not enough to pay the light bill. In the space of one year, my world had become unrecognizable. I was ten when I was baptized and by age eleven there was almost nothing left of who I was before. In a childhood punctuated by loneliness, being saved actually made things much worse. I stopped wearing pants and cutting my hair. This only served to make me stand out even more once I started middle school. I only had three outfits for public school that fit within the UPC standards and so I rotated them. My 6th-grade homeroom teacher started to keep track of how many days in a row I wore a dress. He was a little weird. He looked like grizzly Adams and all the girls really liked him. This was the most pious time of my life. I tried to not watch television and almost never listened to “worldly music.” That being said, pop culture would always be my weakness. At times when we had electricity and cable, I would sneak and watch television and even MTV. I have spoken so much about our poverty but there were times when we were able to keep our heads above water and even have little luxuries like cable. During these good times, I would struggle to keep myself holy and away from the evils of Madonna and HBO. The United Pentecostal Church has very strict holiness standards and I tried to follow them all. Those standards served to further alienate me from my peers and family. My mother never embraced the UPC standards and so she swung from telling me they were too strict to feeling enormous guilt and beating herself up. She cut her hair, wore pants, watched television, and listened to the radio because she was not brought up to feel those things were entirely wrong. I spent time alone in my room to avoid the tv. When we had electricity the tv was always on and I always had this inner fight about it. I wanted to be with my family but I was afraid that if Jesus returned while I was watching I would miss the rapture. Escaping the guillotine was a strong motivator. So I sat in my room alone. My non-church friends drifted away because I could no longer do most of the things young kids like to do. Some of them even told me that their parents said I was in a cult. One might think at least I had the church kids but that did not pan out the way I expected either. There was a hierarchy and I was near the bottom. It went something like this: pastor’s kids at the top, any minister’s child, elder’s children, and then whoever gave the most money, the poor, and last those of a race other than white. I was very poor and my parents did not give the church tons of money, I was also of mixed heritage and that was a problem. The only kids worse off than I were the kids who were black or even worse half-black. I was able to elevate myself with some of the adults because of all of the work I did for the church, bus ministry, nursing home ministry, campus ministry, and being the Bible quiz captain. As I got older and adults learned I could sing they would allow me to sing duets with other adults but never a solo. The kids didn’t care about any of that. They saw my race, my class, and that our parents did not associate with each other. Plus I also suspect that I was a little socially awkward. I had been alone so much and really only hung out with adults. I never knew how to connect with kids my own age.
Even with my extreme fear of hell, I would sneak contraband from time to time. I wish I had a better memory of exactly what was happening in our family financially. We had times where we went out to dinner every payday and even had cable and there were times when we had nothing. My mother worked at a laundry for much of my young childhood and occasionally Pizza Pit as a side gig. Eventually, she landed a job driving a city bus and things became better for a time. She wanted to be a police officer and almost made it but she was unable to pass the fitness test. My mother suffered from pretty severe asthma for most of my childhood and it kept her from making her dream a reality. That being said, a city job was a city job and she was happy to be hired to drive busses. This job came with good health insurance and a free bus pass for all family members. She had cable installed and then it became much harder for me to resist the television. In particular MTV and HBO. I loved music and I was drawn in early by music videos. Madonna was the biggest draw and I just couldn’t get enough of her. I tried to dress like her which is hard when you can’t wear jewelry, makeup, or pants. I wore lacey bows in my hair to be like her and I think as a small act of rebellion. Don’t let all of this make you think I was less afraid of hell, I wasn’t, but it was becoming harder and harder to resist normal popular culture. At church, they would bring in speakers to talk about the evils of rock music and they always scared the heck out of me. They played recordings of records played backward (backmasking) and told us what the hidden messages were. “Here’s to my sweet Satan” was the real message of Led Zeppelin’s Stairway To Heaven. “It’s fun to smoke marijuana” is what Freddy Mercury was really trying to tell me in Another One Bites The Dust. As ridiculous as it sounds, I was scared of many rock bands because I really believed that they worshipped Satan and they wanted to infiltrate my mind with their demonic messages. Even Falco was in league with the devil when he spoke about, “…no plastic money anymore…” because he was talking about the mark of the beast and glorifying the antichrist. Rock Me Amadeus wasn’t even evil backward; it was right there in plain English, well mostly German. The Beatles thought they were more popular than Jesus, Ozzy Osbourne was always biting the head off of some bird or bat, and I mean just look at Alice Cooper. The problem with all of their efforts to steer us away from the evils of this music is it was the 1980’s and that is not what we wanted to sneak and listen to. I wanted Madonna, Pat Benatar (They did eventually get to her after all she sang “Hell Is For Children”), and all the new wave English bands. All this scary rhetoric would cause young people to throw out all of their music and come crying to the altar to ask for forgiveness.
I think all this fear mongering is why I never heard or understood about grace. The goal always seemed to be to scare us down to that altar and then keep us in line by reminding us about hell and the rapture. God was not loving and he did not seem to want to help me, he was a scorekeeper and was waiting with glee to exact his revenge on anyone who did not fall in line.
So much of the approved music was so boring and repetitive. This is part of the reason I loved Bible camp so much. The music we were exposed to there was of a much higher quality than the music we heard in our home church. I always sang in the choir at church camp. The music would make me feel like I could float to the rooftop on the joy of it all. Then I would have to return home and it was back to the dull and uninspired. When Roy was our youth pastor it wasn’t so bad but when John took over he held much stricter views about music. He would say if the choice is to listen to “Christian Rock” or real rock and roll then he would prefer we listen to Christian rock. On the other hand, he held the opinion that if it is Christian then it is not rock. I remember standing in the vestibule one night after church watching John, our youth pastor rake a young man over the coals for listening to some kind of rock music. I felt bad for him because anyone walking by could see what was happening. My heart ached for what must have been an embarrassing experience for this kid. He was a friend of mine and I felt protective of him. Why not have this conversation somewhere private? My guess is straight up lack of compassion. No thought was given to how this may have made this kid feel? Pre-teens and teens are so easily embaressed by adults. Sometimes it seemed that those in charge of the teens were just lying in wait to catch us doing something wrong. Add to that the general negative attitudes towards us kids and lack of pats and the back and you can see it was a pretty toxic and unloving environment.
The same thing happened with makeup. I loved to think about makeup, and dream of makeup, and if you know me now you know none of that has changed. Makeup was a big big no no. You don’t want to be like the evil Jezebel or Delilah do you? Evil temptresses who lead men to hell with their eyelids and lips.
Proverbs 6: 24-26 “To keep thee from the evil woman, from the flattery of the tongue of a strange woman. Lust not after her beauty in thine heart; neither let her take you with her eyelids. For by means of a whorish woman a man is brought to a piece of bread: and the adulteress will hunt for the precious life.
Proverbs 5:3-5 “For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil: But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold in hell.”
At Bible camp they would preach on the evil’s of makeup and all of the girls would bring their hidden stashes up to the altar. More tears, more repentance, and all for that cherry Lip Smacker that made your lips ever so slightly more red than what they naturally were.
While writing this my mind keeps returning to the idea of joy. When I was a young person the church really was a thief of joy. We were not supposed to take joy in clothing or things of the world, we were only supposed to take joy in Christ. After raising four children of my own I can see how unnatural this is. Young people take joy in so many things. I loved to see my children discover a new author or musician and then become totally enthralled with it. I watched them try on new styles and identities as they matured and it brought me happiness to see them embrace the freedom they did not know they had. I believe the idea that everything is a sin can stunt the growth of young people. It keeps them from experimenting in life and that can close so many doors. I mourn my childhood and all that could have been had I had the freedom to choose.
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.
I have often wondered why so many people seem to turn a blind eye when they see something that doesn’t seem right regarding a child. Maybe they did not see anything but they heard a rumor and maybe they thought it was none of their business. As a child abuse survivor, I’m here to tell you that when you make the choice to turn a blind eye you’re abandoning that child. You might feel that it isn’t your concern or that the child’s parents should be the ones deciding what to do. If you only take one thing away from reading my blog I’d like you to take away that you may be the only thing standing between that child and a lifetime of trauma.
In isolated churches where the outside world is not welcome, children have no one to turn to but those inside of their little community. If the community is more interested in protecting its reputation than protecting the life of the child than that child really has no chance. Not only will they deal with the trauma of whatever abuse happens to them but they may deal with the trauma of not being believed or of feeling unworthy of protection. It may take a lot of courage to speak up and you may have to endure criticism but in the end, is it ever wrong to try to protect or save a child?
If any of the adults around me had stopped to think about how odd it was that a 30ish-year-old man was spending so much time with me they might have asked some questions. The heat of that attention may have scared Steve off from abusing me, he may have felt he was being watched. Had one of the women who knew about this come to me just to check in and see if everything was ok maybe that would have given me a chance to open up, or again it may have scared Steve off. I told him pretty much everything about what was going on in my life. The time he was spending with me was so out there in the open for anyone who was paying attention to see. If you were one of the people who went out after church and shared a meal then you knew he was driving me around. If you were part of his group of friends you knew he was taking me on road trips with him. These adults could have saved me from some of my trauma.
When Steve Dahl was abusing me our church averaged around 250-300 depending on the Sunday. Steve played his trumpet in every service. He and his wife sat in the second row. He was popular and well liked. A man like that doesn’t just disappear from a church and nobody notices he is gone. A woman doesn’t have her husband suddenly leave and no one know what is going on. Her sister was suddenly gone too, so there is another person gone. Pastor Grant would have said something to the elders. The women of the church would have had some idea what was going on with Debbie, Steve’s wife, it would have been out there amongst the congregation. That is a lot of adults choosing to turn a blind eye. Choosing to say nothing. As a child, I could feel everyone stepping back from me like I had some disease they might catch. I knew they knew. I felt judged and unworthy of love. No one reached out to me in love, no one checked in on me, this added to my trauma. I am sure they assumed that pastor Grant would take care of it but maybe they should have checked to be sure. If love and compassion were present then I feel that backing away from me wouldn’t have happened. How do you back away from a wounded child? If they really thought I was a seductive child or whatever they are trying to say now, why didn’t that drive them to ask questions? Even if they had chosen to reach out to me at this point they could have saved me some trauma. If love and therapy had been applied here things could have turned out very differently for me.
In all of the intervening years running right up to the present if any of the adults who heard rumors or flat out knew about what happened had come to me and checked in they could have reduced my trauma.
C-PTSD encompasses trauma coming from many different sources over a long period of time. Food insecurity and poverty featured heavily during my childhood. This was no secret. I can remember one day when my mother took me for a school uniform fitting and another woman who was there commented on how I was so thin I looked like I could just blow away in the wind. On another occasion, I worked very hard to be on the honor roll at school and the reward was to go on a field trip out of town to a museum. I was sooo excited! There was only one problem, my shoes developed a sudden hole in the bottom and I was too embarrassed to go. We had no money for another pair of shoes so my mother called Roy and asked if he could help. He asked another student if she could loan me a pair of shoes for the day. I was mortified. I wore the shoes and the young woman who loaned them to me made sure everyone knew what had happened. Then I gave them back. Well, that solved the issue for that one day, but what would have really helped was if someone had offered to buy me some shoes. Maybe Roy who worked in the school and was my youth leader, or maybe this girl’s parents who were elders at the time. Instead they turned a blind eye. There were adults who knew we did not have electricity from time to time. One person, Ida Cox helped my mother. I remember it was such a big deal and made my life so much easier for a time. The other times we had no electricity no one helped. I know people dropped me off to that sad dark house after church. There were never any lights on. I would open the door and this dark heavy oppression would hit me like a wall of despair. Sometimes my mother would be sitting on the porch outside to greet me and other times the house would be silent. I would feel the way to the stairs leading up to my bedroom and then feel for the oil lamp to give me some light. Didn’t these adults wonder why they never saw a light come on? On one occasion a young adult man dropped me off after a service and I invited him in. My mom and stepdad were not there for some reason. I had nothing to offer him but Koolaid and at one point he asked me about the cooler on the floor. I explained to him that we have no power and that is where we kept our food. I even opened it up briefly to show him the contents. He smiled tightly and soon was out the door. I felt embarrassed and immediately wished I had not invited him in. Another blind eye.
I grew up feeling like everyone could see my pain and no one would help me. I grew up feeling unworthy, sometimes hungry, sometimes lonely, always unloved. This is the garden my trauma grew out of. The harvest of my childhood is an adulthood full of unraveling. First you have to figure out what is wrong with you. You can sense early on in adulthood that you are not like most people. Then you start the long journey of trying to heal. You try dozens of things until you land on some that help. Most help a little but there is no magic pill. Mine is a life of lost potential. I was too busy struggling to survive to do what most people do in their young adulthood. I had no one to help me figure out how to go to college. I had no desire to live with either of my parents and so I moved out at age 17 and got my own apartment. I worked hard to survive but there was no time to nurture myself or think about how to fix what was broken. When you think about turning a blind eye think of me and maybe reconsider. Would one adult be able to solve all of my childhood issues? Probably not, but if I could have entered adulthood with one less layer to my trauma it would have made a huge difference to me.
I believe that churches give too much power to pastors. They often feel that the pastor knows about things and is taking care of them. In legalistic churches, they often blame the victim and stand in judgement instead of applying love and compassion. They may gain salvation but they lose their humanity. The people at Calvary Gospel certainly seem to have lost their heart. How can they side with the abuser over and over again? They pray for the abuser and the victim becomes the problem. This may be why some people feel it is better to turn a blind eye. If they side with the wounded it will not be long before they are also wounded. It is selfish self-preservation. If you are in a group that causes you to silent that inner voice that tells you something is off then I advise you to run! Don’t let an organization like Calvary Gospel take away your humanity and care for children, the poor, elderly, and suffering. Don’t turn a blind eye, say something, reach out and offer your help. If you do this you can hold onto your heart and maybe help someone else to heal theirs.
Age 11
As I look at the photos above all I can think is that she deserved better from all of the adults in her life.
As new things develop and as I work through my personal trauma I have to ask where is the bottom? Where is the bottom when it comes to Calvary Gospel’s crimes against its congregation. I watched their Sunday morning service after they learned of Glen Uselmann’s charges and I was surprised. I shouldn’t be but I find that they never cease to amaze me. As they sink lower and lower I wonder how did they get this way? During their service, there was no mention of healing for the abused but there was mention of healing for Glenn. They did not display humbleness or any sense of self-reflection. What they did display was a sense of being persecuted. Pastor Roy Grant once again did not speak to his congregation. I have watched many regular services now and he has not spoken at any of them. I have to wonder where is his leadership? The speaker mentioned the torture of the saints and those dealing with depression but no mention was made of the trauma survivors. It is important to keep in mind that we survivors are the children of their congregation. They raised us and their lack of compassion towards our pain is nothing short of stunning. They continue to direct all of their love and compassion towards the ones who committed crimes against their children. When they speak out against myself and others they often say that we mischaracterize their views on women. I do not understand how they can say that when their views are so obvious and on full display. As girls, we were made to believe that we were second class citizens in the kingdom of God. Not just second class citizens but walking sin that needed to be covered up, hidden, and we needed to be ever vigilant lest we caused our brother to fall. Whatever they actually believed the message that was delivered was that men bear no responsibility for their actions but little girls should somehow be capable to make or break a man in the lust department. Little girls were told not to bring shame on the church by reporting, not to ruin a grown man’s life, and to take responsibility for the whole situation. Little girls often bore the stain of whatever happened while the men would go on to make their mark in the ministry. If women are truly the weaker vessel then why are they given so much responsibility to carry, especially young girls? It is also important to point out that we are talking about children. Grown men should not be lusting after children. A girl of 11 or 12 is a child. Most of the rest of society can see this why can’t they? They act so put upon, so persecuted, and they seem to have no awareness of their responsibility. As they dig in their heels they risk falling deeper into the pit they have created for themselves.
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:
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!
*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.
While I have been working on my book I’ve been thinking about the past. In particular, the time right after I left CGC. Because of trauma writing is a slow process and at times it can really knock me off my feet. Other times I just sit and stare feeling nothing but a heaviness in my chest that I cannot explain. I suspect that heaviness is pain, pain that I’m not ready to address or pain that I am afraid to feel.
About a year before I left the church I started to work at York Steak House. It was my first real job and I was so happy to have it. I finally had the opportunity to meet kids my own age and feel somewhat normal. To the teens I met, I was rather exotic, a “private school girl”. I think that made me much more attractive to the boys than I might have been had I not showed up to work in my school uniform every day. While I was there I tried to blend in but it became clear to the other teens that I was not one of them. That being said they welcomed me with open arms and soon I was being invited to parties and other social gatherings. This acceptance did nothing to help the church in my eyes. The church never really accepted me and when I was there I felt so unwanted and unloved. Suddenly I found this group of kids who liked me, who saw me as normal-ish, and who were willing to be my friends. A whole new world opened up for me. These couldn’t possibly be the teens my youth pastor and pastor had warned me about, you know the ones who would lead me straight to hell! How could it be that these “worldly” kids could be so kind, compassionate, and warm?
For a short while, I walked the line between my new friends and my life at the church. I tried to be good but also cultivate these new relationships. Having these friends made it so much easier for me to walk away when it became clear to me that I could no longer tolerate the church. I want to be crystal clear about one thing, I did not leave the church because these friends were a bad influence, I left the church because of how CGC had treated me for a decade. I left the church because I had no fight left in me and no hope that my situation would ever be better.
Once I left CGC I embraced my new life slowly at first. Tears and worry came when I cut my hair and pierced my ears and I waited to be struck by lightning. When nothing happened I breathed a sigh of relief and set out to discover the world I had been in but not a part of for so long. I started to party with my new friends and we went to many many concerts together. Music has been a huge part of my life for as long as I can remember. For most of my adult life, I have looked back on these days with rose-colored glasses firmly in place. It was a magical time. To this day I love the feeling of being down in the pit at shows, the energy of the crowd is so much better there. I may have traded in Cinderella for The Avett Brothers but some things never change. I could breathe in this new life, I could relax and just be without the stress of the church breathing down my neck. It was so fun to choose clothing that was off-limits to me in the past. Now I had money to spend and the freedom to really enjoy it by buying whatever I wanted.
Along with this came alcohol. I experimented with alcohol before I ever left the church but that was very mild compared to the drinking I did after I left. I drank every weekend with my friends and although we did it pretty safely it became a habit. I’ve never struggled to abstain from drinking and I count that as a small miracle considering how much I drank in my late teens. Before I started really digging into my past through the writing process I would look back on that time with fondness. I was so free! I had friends and we had so many good times together. I attended so many great shows and lived my life with youthful abandon. This included my interactions with boys, and there were so many of them. I have always promised to tell the truth here and so I intend to be truthful about this as well. I had sex with many young men. It was the only way I knew to get my emotional needs met. I understand now that as accepted as I felt I could only get so close to people. I kept everyone at arm’s length, never really letting them close to my heart. I existed in self-protection mode at all times. It has been well documented that women who have suffered sexual abuse as children often become promiscuous as teens. I was not an exception.
I have always been the type of person who becomes still when I drink. I am not an angry drunk if anything I become much more chilled out. I think this is because of C-PTSD. My nerves are always on high alert and alcohol makes my system calm down some. As a teen I never drank to get drunk I drank to get to that place where I could relax and not feel so much. When I drank I could feel less and that was a relief. I was carrying around so much pain. At that time I did not want to talk or think about the past, I just wanted to move on. I recognize now that I was in survival mode. I wasn’t ready to open any of the doors inside my heart and brain, all I was ready for was removing the threat by leaving the church and then trying to catch my breath. I spent years trying to catch my breath, trying to figure out how to move on. People would always say, “Isn’t great that you’re out now, you can move on.” Sadly that isn’t how it works. Those things inside me just got louder and louder until I was strong enough to listen. Sex and relationships with men were another way I tried to cope. I wrapped myself in them and it gave me something else to focus on to forget the pain. I was chasing my dad, Steve, and every other male who had let me down and abandoned me. Through my trying to escape my trauma I only created more. Each time my heart was broken by a man it was like reliving the pain of the past over again. Sadly at that time, I couldn’t see it.
So those years don’t look so rosy to me anymore. I’m finding as I write, more and more of my past is cloaked in darkness. There are so many things, events, and people that I will never see the same again, and although that makes me sad it is also liberating. I believe in truth and I try my best not to hide from it. It can be hard to look truth in the face. Doing so may cause you to lose community, family, and so much more, but by embracing truth you can release so much pain. In my life, that action has been the only path to healing.
Happy 2020! If you are new to my blog I encourage you to start at the beginning even though there is a lot of content to get through. You will understand my story better if you start at the first post. This year I suspect the content of this blog might shift a little. I want to focus a bit more on the after-effects of trauma and how it impacts people long term. I know that it continues to affect me and many others I have contact with.
About a month ago I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia and possibly another autoimmune disorder. There is a lot going on with my health, way more than I have the time to get into here. I firmly believe that my illness has a lot to do with the trauma I suffered in the past. There is science to back this up. Women are much more likely to suffer from fibro and those who have been through childhood trauma are even more likely. There seems to be a real connection between fibro and childhood sexual abuse. Even more so there is a connection between childhood trauma and autoimmune disease in general. I find this to be a fascinating topic. Many survivors I know suffer from depression and anxiety due to their past abuse and many folks with autoimmune disorders also suffer from mental illness.
I think the physical burdens carried by abuse survivors speaks to how hard or impossible it may be to “just let it go.” We are often told to forgive and forget but when your body is still experiencing things decades later it can be hard to just pretend like nothing ever happened.
If you are a survivor, have you suffered from an illness that you feel is connected to your past experiences?
Debbie McNulty 