Joining a Movement Like IFB Was Not My Choice; Leaving Was

Me as a child. IFB was all I knew.

                                 

I didn't ask to be born into the world of Christian Fundamentalism and certainly if I had a say in the matter, I'd never choose the Independent Fundamental Baptist movement to be the only world I knew. Although those are not my regrets to bear because I was just a child, I still grieve the years that I feel were stolen from me by a choice not made of my own choosing. I often explain it like this...my parents, who were my introduction to that world, were converted but I was conditioned. 

From birth, I was groomed for a life in that movement, taught that to leave could even mean the death of myself or someone I loved. I was never meant to leave, never meant to have a life outside of the IFB Church. I was to marry an IFB man and produce more third generation Independent Fundamental Baptists in my family. I was to serve the church, the pastor, the cause. 

Not find myself as a fish out of water. 

If you're drowning, it's likely you are so tired of treading water that your body, your mind, and your soul can no longer fight anymore. Feeling like I was drowning was my escape. Nothing mysterious, dramatic or extradionary–I needed out, so I found one. My way out was my body saying "Hold up!” due to years of trauma. I was forced to take a long overdue break, recuperate and rest. Rest brought clarity and thankfully I never went back, never returned. Didn't want to. 

October 30, 2014, was the last day I made that well memorized trip to that white steepled country church. As a child, I skinned my knees on the concrete steps, walked the brick flowerbeds like a highwire, snuck out to explore the grounds when I wasn't supposed to and then later while services were in progress to catch a breath when the hurt was too much. I felt my heart break, my chest cave in as I sat in my pew, dying inside. 

I left because I was born into a movement I'd never be able to grow in. I'd never become the person I was meant to be. I couldn't just survive, trying to advocate for myself without a clue on how to do just that. After years of experiencing personal hurt and witnessing the same for others, I wanted to feel peace. 

I've felt more moments of peace in the past six years out of the IFB, than I ever did the entire twenty-one years in. 

Some people struggle to hear that, try to reason this part of my truth away. I've found that those in my safe circle not only support this, but celebrate it. I'd never have a chance to find my authentic self, the person I was supposed to be without the rules and regulations and control of a cult-like church. 

If I owe my thanks to a god, then they get it. I've never been more thankful for becoming sick in my life. 

For those of you who have made the heart wrenching decision to leave an abusive church or a religion, don't ever let the misunderstandings of others take away from your story. Don't let them steal that hard fought win. You won. If you've left, you're still winning. They didn't completely break you. You got beat down, but came back up swinging. You leapt to freedom, to safety, to love, to happiness. You made a leap from the past to a bright future. It's yours, you do with it as you want. 

By sharing this blog, I'm putting myself out there. I'm reminded often why that can be a good and bad thing. But I am glad I did. This, too, is part of my journey. With each word I write, the face-splitting smiles, the genuine belly laughs, the very real tears, the chance to dream–with all of it–I'm thankful all the time that the journey didn't end at a little white, steepled country church in a small farming town in Virginia. 

My story is still being written. So is yours. Don't let anyone hold the pen but you.