Once Upon a Time in My Oceania

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...

  Picture of Lydia Joy Launderville I think it’s time for an update on my personal blog. Life has been busy, whew! I’ve moved out of the small town that was home for most of my life. It was both a place of dear memories, and also very tough ones. I still go back often though and feel a peace within me that is accompanied by a bittersweet smile (and yes, sometimes triggers because Post Traumatic Stress is real!). I turn on country music often, as it feels fitting and is connected to my roots. While there, I was always on the outside, my family being swept up in the IFB and not really able to join in on the festivities but country music was a theme we heard often. There was still the annual Christmas parade we witnessed many, many times  and every year Brunswick stew was up for purchase once it got colder weather. Then, most often July 4 th celebrations that included fireworks near the small ballfield and I did enjoy their car shows that featured classic muscle cars when it was...

  Confronting a past that has harmed you without any say from you is difficult. Trying to process the decisions and actions made by others against you is a new level of confusing. I remember when I was a young adult, and my one imprisoned abuser started the process to seek an early release after a few years into his sentence. I started to search for anything I could use to speak up on my behalf if the process ever made it farther. What happened was that I stumbled upon notes and information taken by social workers and the detective on my childhood abuse case. It was very difficult reading those notes, seeing the sadistic mindset of my abuser. I remember that when asked why he molested me as a child that his response was that I was “annoying.” In his abusive and twisted mind, he molested a child for being a child and to him who was annoying child at that. I remember the turmoil reading that unwarranted explanation caused in me. I was always told that I was annoying growing up and ...

  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...

  By Noelle Myers One thing many survivors of cults have in common is a sense of a lost childhood. Of course, big things like Halloween and prom were absolutely forbidden. Allocated as “of the devil” and “sinful” these childhood rites of passage were looked at with longing, watched from the outside like the proverbial kid in a candy store window. More than that, for me, it was also not doing many things children get to do. I could never ride the quarter machines, because all our money went to the church. Dance class was out – as being worldly and sinful – moving your body was a no-no, and let’s not even think about a leotard or the (gasp) music. Skiing, swimming, and most sports were out because of violations of the church-imposed dress code.   Even going to the gym was frowned upon (for women at least) due to the large number of men present and the lack of a “moral” dress code.   I can’t speak to what it is or was like for men, although I personally noticed quite the d...

  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 Anonymous When Lydia asked me if I’d like to write, I was torn. I have a lot of people in my life who are wonderful, and they don’t fit the into box of abusive or cult-like at all. But I did run into some people who were critical, condescending, and plain mean. I did try to do everything “right.” I thought if I did everything right, people would see that and be nice. I was wrong. It took me a few years to realize that some people would automatically oppose whatever my family and I offered the church. For example: activities. If they came to activities my husband had planned and was in charge of, they’d do their part with food or whatever but then they’d hang out in the other room and wouldn’t participate or see how well he was doing things. Of course some people were great. I am not talking about these people. Long story short, I went through a terrible depression. I don’t mean I was sad.  I mean I couldn’t function.  I couldn’t focus ...

  Much of my life has operated around this broken and problematic thing called black-and-white thinking. It’s how my beliefs were ingrained into me, how I made my decisions and the lens through which my emotions were translated. One thing was either one way or the other, and there was never any middle ground. It was either wrong or right, black or white, good or bad. There was never an in between, no place for doubts or unanswered questions. Everyone around me displayed this mentality, and because children often mimic the adults in their lives, I, too, grew up with much of that mindset. Even after leaving fundamentalism that thrives off such thinking, those thought patterns have unfortunately followed me. While trying to find my views, my values, and my own way, I’ve found that the mindset I grew up with still finds ways to seep into my subconsciousness. For example, humans make mistakes, and a good person can do bad things, but still be a good person. That is just a part of being...