Once Upon a Time in My Oceania

  Christmas used to be banned while I was just a child growing up in the IFB world. With the often complexity that can sometimes be in homes and in churches in that environment, some members would celebrate, and others would not. Some embraced Christmas trees and Santa to a degree, while others swore such things were complete evil and would shun them. In my experience, the first IFB church to influence my family had shunned everything to do with the holiday, including gift giving. My family celebrated gift giving on a day that emphasized thanks and gratefulness more, and that was on Thanksgiving. This tradition brings back a lot of fond memories for me and as child I would be so excited to get my gifts a whole month earlier than most kids. However, when I reached a certain age and realized that others, especially the outside world, celebrated Christmas in a more acceptable way, I longed to experience that Christmas spirit in the same way. My first Christmas was when I reached the...

  I knew it was possible that the new people in my life may stumble upon what I write on religious abuse, trauma, and cults. I also knew that they could possibly learn more about me than I was ready to share just yet. When I first started writing a blog, my articles, or social media posts on the abuse I survived, specifically in the Independent Fundamental Baptist movement, I didn’t worry too much about that particular aspect of being vulnerable about my experiences, on the internet, no less. I had a goal in mind, and I followed it. I started writing, raising my voice when I could about the things I cared about in the moment. I was all about “giving the damn” for once. It was with my first real connections post-cult, especially those of the romantic and friendship variety that really brought my writing to the forefront. At first, I struggled to know how to share about my passions surrounding abuse advocacy, mental health, and especially cult awareness as they are paramount to me....

Yesterday, I nearly ran into a person who was a key figure in my life for the last fifteen of the twenty-one years I was in the IFB movement. I was shopping and instantly turned the other direction out of shock, out of years of hurt, and because I wasn't sure I could hold my tongue. I remained in years of abuse as a child because of these people, have chronic PTSD and long-term and incurable health issues that my doctors have clearly stated came from the constant trauma I experienced. It's been seven years since I last saw them. I'm still the same person, but I've also grown significantly as a human being, too. The discomfort didn't trigger a panic attack, something I always thought would be a given when I've imagined that moment over the years though. I moved on and went about my day. I don't even know if they noticed me and didn't lose sleep over it wondering. I ended up feeling peace just from knowing I'll never be in that prison of a church again...

  I cried today. Bawled. Snotty nose, swollen red eyes, and shoulders that shook cried. What caused this intense reaction? Christmas cards. I thought 6 years later I'd be stronger than this. That it wouldn't bother me as much. That distance and its friend time would have helped heal this old wound. I also naively considered the fact that this year my life has had much more happiness, new and unexpected changes, that were also welcome and that those things would lessen the sting. I thought I had grown and yes, I know I have in some major ways.  But the truth is it still hurts. So I'm writing this. To my family who I won't be seeing this holiday season because I left the Church: I think we all secretly dreaded the holidays long before I left. The stress to be perfect, to add up to others' depictions of good Christian families was tough. There was always so, so much pressure. Or maybe that was just me feeling it. But, I think we always knew that, although there were la...

My conversion process isn't something I look back on with sentimental nostalgia, in fact, I really don't like that memory. At seven years old, I found myself terrified, going face to face with an angry God and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if I didn't accept Him as my personal Savior, I'd burn eternally in a literal hell. This being the case, I confessed all the sins of just a child, most importantly the sin of being born a sinner, and became a Christian. I repented fully, accepted the gift of salvation and shortly later was baptized. I did all of this, believing wholeheartedly and entirely convinced in the teachings I learned from babyhood. I knew I was a wretched sinner, deserved hell, but the remedy to my condition was Jesus' sacrifice on the cross. At just seven years old, the problem was solved. The first time I was called to share the good news of my conversion was that very night it was made known. In front of the entire congregation, I was cal...

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...

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...

No one ever warned me about this part of my life. With everything I read on the subject, very rarely did the conversation come with a "heads up" on what to expect when you begin to wade through the waters of deconstructing from your past faith. As a former fundamentalist, I was not prepared for the sheer ability to ask questions. My existence in my community, especially as a female, meant I was silent and constantly fell into line when told to. As a follower my leader dictated the emotions I was to feel and thinking outside of the box was foreign to me. Leaving meant searching for a new identity entirely. I had no clue who I was to be without my fundamentalist past self or without the pastor leading me each week on what I was to believe spiritually. I wasn't ready to watch friends turn into enemies or hearing past members refer to me as a stranger, instead of the little girl who grew up in their midst for the past fifteen years. I wasn't expecting that some w...