Once Upon a Time in My Oceania

  Accepting that life is not a puzzle I can solve, a code I can crack, that it doesn’t come with a roadmap has been one of the biggest obstacles I’ve encountered. I’ve encountered a lot of change in my life. For years, it felt like things would never turn out my way. I was stuck in this cycle of just hanging on and settling in–true survival mode at its finest. I lost years to crippling anxiety and depression, and so many moments curled up on the floor in flashbacks.  I remember one of the first flashbacks I had ever encountered. I couldn’t make myself get in the car to go to my IFB church. I was about 20, and I could not make my body get ready– no brushing my hair, no putting on my limited makeup, not being able to iron my long skirts. I just couldn’t do it. I watched as my family left without me and I curled up on the floor of my bedroom and sobbed in the fetal position on my green scratchy yet soft rug. I was a failure! I knew I would once again hear from the church people t...

I recently came upon this term, glimmers, from a friend. I was instantly captivated at such a notion. A beautiful notion, at that. If you have complex and chronic Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, the word “trigger” is not just a word; it’s an experience. It can look like many different things connected to our senses: smell, touch, sound, sight, a taste, an emotional state—our senses are powerful mechanisms that connect the past to our present. However, sometimes these senses produce scrambled signals to our brains and if you have PTSD, you know all too well that it makes you feel the traumatic event is happening right in the here and now. Suddenly, the musky scent of a basement makes me cringe thinking of a few family vacations where the sexual abuse I endured as a child never got a break. Or the sight of a white church steeple reminds me of the house of worship where I was spiritually abused for years and felt stuck. Sometimes, it’s the taste of grape juice that we drank during commu...

  What is peace? If you asked me as a fundamentalist, I would have answered “a peace of that passeth all understanding,” which because it was far beyond understanding, I never truly did, well, actually, understand it. I never felt peace in abuse. I never had piece of mind either. I just got through it. I wanted to have the capability to experience the peace that was preached but now I know it was simply not feasible in that environment. For many years, I was led to believe that the issue was with me, not the church. If I did everything exactly as I was taught, as the man of God proclaimed, as the Bible “clearly” stated, then, I would no doubt have that peace they always talked about. But I did not. I felt like an anomaly. The odd one, that I was one that had deep wounds that I had caused to myself where peace evaded. The irony is that I was always very confident in that world. I knew that I knew the teachings with my heart and my head. I knew the rules and believed in following...

  When I look back at the beginning of this blog and where I was, in that moment of my healing journey, I’m left in awe of how far I’ve come not only with this blog but as a person. Revisiting the day I started Once Upon a Time in My Oceania, looked like staying up all night to craft the first draft of my blog while crashing on my couch. I had just experienced major burnout and my health was against me. I had spent eight months steadily researching both a personal initiative with my twin sister to see how many crimes were connected to the IFB, along with providing that data to a reporter who I now consider a friend (that series was published late 2018 actually). My inbox was filled with victim after victim sharing their story, and then, also frantic family members who were looking for relatives who had been sucked into the more isolated churches in the Independent Fundamental Baptist movement. I was exhausted adding more abuser names to an ever-growing list and having little to n...

  Trigger Warning: Abuse, religious trauma, childhood abuse, sexual abuse I openly share about a lot of difficult things that have occurred in my life as someone born and raised in a toxic religious environment, that I feel fits the criteria of a cult. I don’t throw that term around haphazardly. I’m careful for a few reasons, including trying to prevent misinformation from being sent out into cyberspace and also because my experiences, like many other cult survivors out there are real stories that should never be taken lightly. When you are one that hears a lot of tough accounts of those who have survived trauma, it is easy to be desensitized. This is part coping, part exposure. But down deep, compassion and empathy are there. You understand what it’s like to walk in the often-unique shoes of those who recognize that there are two worlds if you survived a cult: the real one and the cult’s. I was in a cult. Like I said, I share that publicly. And like many other cult survivors of ...

  My journey post cult has been an uphill battle on most days. The trauma of surviving abuse and a cultic experience translated into struggles I still face today. Back in Autumn of 2014, when I left the abusive group I was a part of for 21 years, I didn’t have tools or support really. I shut down emotionally and mentally. I lost myself and fell into a dark depression that lasted 3 years without any relief. I started seeing improvement after connecting with other survivors. Then, I started to join the rest of the world. I started advocating, researching, and offering help to those that I could. In 2019, when I called out my past church for harboring an alleged abuser, I decided to step away in many ways and focus on myself after that negative response. Experiencing betrayal after betrayal by friends and family was my cue I needed to focus on my recovery. Within a year, I started building for my future. I sought out joy, took care of myself, created my support system, and sociali...

  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....

  Becoming nostalgic for the life I once had in a cult happens very seldomly in my experience. But when I do, and I travel down memory’s lane, remembering the moments that were not as painful, I feel a connection to a part of myself that I lost. When you leave an environment that is hurtful, you know down deep it was always the right call to walk out the door. That does not change when you experience nostalgia for a time that you knew all the answers, had a role to play and in a community of your own. Last night this was me. I suddenly found myself diving deep into waters I rarely traverse. I found myself laughing about some funny moments and then crying over the things I missed. For example, I recently watched the movie RESPECT in a theater (gasp!) about Aretha Franklin. Aretha was a very religious person and throughout the movie, I found myself quietly singing along with the songs she had sung, songs that I hadn’t heard in nearly a decade. I sang a lot of those songs. In a co...

  By Noelle Myers “Children should be seen and not heard” is a phrase many of us grew up with. This phrase is an old English proverb, dating from the 15th century and was written by an Augustinian clergyman. At that time, the phrase was not aimed specifically at young women. Yet it was something most of us, especially women, in the cult, knew and understood applied to us. It may not have been explicitly said, but it most certainly was implied. Women, in particular, were to be meek, silent, and submissive. We were to be “seen” (but only if we fit a certain mold – looked a certain way). As a child, many of us were taught not to speak unless spoken to, to remain meek and sweet, no matter what the circumstances, and to always, always acquiesce to “authority” (read: male) figures. The pastor was akin to God Himself, infallible, never to be questioned – but so were most of the men, especially those in positions of power. We were never to complain about anything, not the ice-cold French...

  I grew up convinced I wasn’t going to be able to make anything of myself. I was taught I was unworthy, worthless, and that I wasn’t even ordinary. I wanted nothing more than to make my parents proud, carve out my own path and convince myself I was a somebody. I realized I wasn’t just a somebody, I’m me. And that’s a good thing. If you would have asked me ten years ago where I would see myself today, you’d get an answer of a Baptist wife, mother and hopefully using my love for piano to make music or even teach a Sunday school class. I remember when that last one became impossible after I made waves in my past church. I wanted so much to be considered as a candidate to teach young teens and specifically wanted to focus on their self-worth, but that never happened. Now, I look back and am glad, because I would’ve encouraged rebellion in the ranks (you can laugh here; I am). Teaching others while my journey was just beginning and heading in a different direction, nonetheless, wou...