Once Upon a Time in My Oceania

I talk about many of the troubling teachings I took away from Christian Fundamentalism throughout this blog. Well, the teaching of respect was a big one. Often, I've referenced that members and followers answered to their authority figures—the heads of their churches, homes and families. Being disrespectful was not only something that was to be avoided, it was an actual sin. This complicated things for a number of reasons and are places that I still find myself struggling to navigate through. So many areas of my life were impacted by this group rule. Very easily, it could be hijacked and used as a dangerous and manipulative weapon by those with sadistic intents. So deeply was this teaching engrained that it was second nature, so members—men, women and namely, children—were often mistreated by the demand to always be respectful. It started with the conditioning in the home. From childhood, I knew that honoring my parents was vital in order to live a long life. At a young ag

I had an unlikely ability to arise in the final years leading up to my exit from my past fundamentalist community and that was the ability to actively begin omitting. This was unusual due to the fact that that meant I had something to keep back. Thoughts uniquely mine began to develop, take root and form an argument that would build deep in my gut and reappear to debate while I was alone or at night, unable to go to sleep. Thoughts like wondering why I wasn't enthusiastic about serving in my church, feelings of disillusion with leaders and the cause, and the ever growing isolation that seemed to swallow me up whole while in the midst of a congregation. I began to have doubts and with them came the gnawing feeling to understand why.  You're not to understand why. You're to do or die.  That was a mantra I heard often growing up, demanding that asking why is proof of rebellion. Those final years I didn't fight to hold the doubts at bay anymore; I couldn't ignore

The ability to claim normalcy probably disappeared the day I came into this world screaming my baby lungs out. I was number ten of an ever-growing family, with older siblings years my senior. It's a safe bet "normal" continued to elude me with my childhood mainly isolated as a homeschooled kid. There were rare encounters with other children my age with the few times I wandered to my small town's park to play with a handful of kids who were either getting their education at home, similar to me, or a few others who played hookie from the public school some miles away. The majority of interaction was due to my connections to my fundamentalist community though. Church was the center of my life; everything revolved around it. You can pretty much kiss "normal" goodbye when something that controlling is what your life mostly consists of. Making things more difficult was the fact I knew how odd I appeared to others. I lost count of how many times I was asked b

It's been an exciting journey thus far sharing my words here on Blogger! The positive feedback from readers that have faithfully continued to check out each new blog post has meant the world to me. Unboxing many tough memories and revisiting life in my brand of Oceania hasn't been easy, but the introspection has been equally important. In pursuing this idea prompted by those closest  to me, I promised myself my battle plan on tackling a project like this would entail two things: 1) a commitment of at least six months; and 2) inspiration. I'd add one more and that's patience. Patience with my brain as writing block is no joke and patience with myself as life goes on, bringing what life will bring. I feel that I have overall met these three goals. I'm on month seven and life, as the bitch often does, demands my patience needs to be tried. I'm down with this. So, between revisiting and tackling tough subjects, hearing from one or two long ago critics, and emb

I never encountered something so terrifying than being faced with decision-making. Not only are life changing decisions intimidating, but sometimes, so are even the average, everyday minuscule variety. I can't lie, it can be frustrating and overwhelming, this byproduct of living in a fundamentalist environment where the only "decision" you made was how quickly to obey the top guy. As a child, I recall a children's tune that was quite popular in our group where youngsters would spell out the word obedience in a joyful voice. I still remember it now, "O-B-E-D-I-E-N-C-E. Obedience is the very best way to show that you believe!" At 10 years old, I finally memorized it properly after my 4th grade teacher was left dumbfounded while I struggled to hack a spelling test using her suggestion of referring back to that commonly sang song. I was left embarrassed because not only could I not spell the word, but my Sunday school class from my primary days was more obs

The damage I see everywhere, all around me, the stuff I left behind. It's in the call for help, that young person wading through the darkness on their own, because Mom and Dad preach love, but refuse to love the real them.  I see it in the broken pieces of the hallowed eyed wife, married for a decade to a "godly" man who she gave babies to and works herself broken, tip-toeing to avoid his temper and who can't get his words degrading her self worth to zero out of her head. I see it in young girls and boys who in order to find some safety, leave their past communities with no education, no practice and no idea what it takes to survive in the real world or how to go after it.  I see the girl who is self conscious and nervous, never having been able to speak up and disagree with a man or anyone in an authority position. Her hands tremble, heart pounds, but she forces out that timid disagreement to a crowd of silent cheers. I recognize that suspicious

When you grow up in the world I grew up in, feeling emotions, let alone negative emotions, was a tricky process. Concentrating solely on the positive was something that was deeply engrained into us from the beginning. Things like feeling discontent were considered sin and needed to be repentented of as such. That being the case, common was the ability to stop negative emotions in their tracks, forcing ourselves as Saints to think on "things from above." I strongly remember the scripture verse about "laying up treasure in heaven" as a way to say that dwelling on earthly problems was wrong and should be avoided. Sometimes, too, was the teachings that this also applied to mental health struggles such as anxiety and depression, suggesting that they in fact did not exsist and were a spiritual falling away. Of the many teachings in the Independent Fundamental Baptist world, the teaching of bitterness was one that I and other survivors of the movement have found, for

I still recall my smile stretching from ear to ear on my then freckled six year old face. I'm proud and honored, enjoying this rare emotion of feeling special. It's Sunday morning and towering next to me on my left is the man I would continue to look up to for fifteen years, my pastor. This was a honor, being chosen to sit in the front pew next to him until it was his time to take to the pulpit and the sermon laid upon his heart. The congregation is singing one of their favorites, Power in The Blood or Amazing Grace , maybe, and I'm struggling to find the page to the old hymn so my pastor steps in, hands me his song book and takes mine. Next to him waiting expectantly is my twin sister and he repeats the process, exchanging hymnals with a patient smile and low chuckle. We sing, join in with the familiar aspects of each service—offering, more congregational singing, greeting other worshipers, sitting quietly through any special music—and then, the preaching hour. My twin