Chapter 1- Introductions

I am writing this story under a pseudonym - not because I fear the backlash that will most likely follow, but because I wish to demonstrate that this story could be anyone’s.

Spiritual abuse is a highly misunderstood and under researched phenomenon that is very rarely considered when it comes to abuse and trauma.

Over my career in mental health and drug and alcohol nursing I have come to understand that spiritual abuse is common and as of yet there is very little - no research on how to provide treatment and support. Time and time again I have observed the correlation between childhood spiritual abuse and mental health and substance use issues in later life. Despite this fact, there is barely any information available on the subject.

My intention is not to defame any particular person or group (although admittedly I would like certain groups to be exposed at some point in the future) but rather to project that spiritual abuse is very real and further research (perhaps qualitative data) is needed in the trauma space.

I would like to be a voice for those that cannot voice their story. I would like to highlight that this story is not very unique and can and does affect a diverse range of people and that getting out is a plausible and achievable option.

Chapter 1: Introductions

I have started this story so many times. I have started a sentence, a page, a chapter, written in metaphors, symbols and imagery yet I can never seem to finish what I start. I have sat and pondered titles and words that I could write and imagined writing my story in full but somehow the words never come. After much deliberation I have made a decision. I will write this story exactly as it occurred - no metaphors, no hidden meanings and no dark and twisted analogies that the reader must decode. This is my story of surviving a cult.

I spent the first 18 years of my life in a religious cult.

“Wow really?” “How long were you in it?” “Was it hard to leave?” “Why did your parents stay so long?” “But you seem normal” (what is normal?)

A few of the common response I get when people come to learn this fact.

Trying to explain the weight of this reality is an extremely difficult task but I will endeavour to do my best throughout these next few pages.

To understand what it is to live in a cult first we must understand what a cult is.

The word cult is quite literally a shortened word for culture. You may be familiar with terms such as ‘cult classics’ which denotes a specific type of genre or group.

In the context I will be talking about, cult has come to mean a group of people who are practising the same type of lifestyle choices (often religious) and have extreme or fanatical views. These groups will frequently have very little association with the outside world (those not of the same beliefs) and often have one primary authority figure. The feminist in me wants to say that a vast majority of these leaders are male, however perhaps it is best not to mention that.

So here we are, 1995, day 1 of my journey. At this first moment of life I was blissfully unaware that as a baby girl I had already been stamped with the card of oppression. To be born a girl in modern western society is one thing - to be born a girl in a patriarchal, tyrannical cult is another thing entirely.

My earliest memories of church start when I was around 4. Several vivid memories are stuck in my mind from these early days, one of which being the fact that the word Fuck was graffitied on the building where the church was. I remember reading it to my family one morning not knowing what it meant but being proud that I could spell. My dad promptly informed me it was a bad word and not to say it again. I used to read it every time we drove by. Maybe now I realise it was a warning telling us not to drive any further..

a second prominent memory for me is Sunday school.

Sunday school was divided into two different classes. “Little Sunday school and big Sunday school”.

Little Sunday school was for kids under school age and big Sunday school was for kids 6 or 7-12.

I recall many mornings when I was in little Sunday school where I would cry and beg for my older sister to stay with Me. She was two years older than I and was already in big Sunday school whereas I was still stuck (unjustly so I thought) in little Sunday school. Sometimes my crying and pleading would work and other times it wouldn’t. I hated being stuck with all the little kids and I took delight in ignoring the teachers because I felt they were condescending. Being home schooled I was already a year or two ahead of most kids my age and the content seemed “childish” to big grown up 5 year old me. I recall the pastors wife teaching class one day and I was so excited to share a revelation about how sin is like weeds. I explained in front of the class how sin is a weed and if we let it grow in our garden it will overtake everything beautiful. The pastors wife quickly replied that this didn’t make sense and so once again I refused to talk. I also remember that same lady publicly scolding me once I advanced to ‘Big Sunday school’ because my prayer for the tithes/offerings was too short. This prayer had to be done in front of the entire class mind you and seemed a scary fete for a little girl.

My sister of course was there to console me once I ashamedly returned to my seat.

A final memory of this time frame is the dressing up.

Every Sunday we would dress up in our Sunday best and I used to enjoy wearing the prettiest dresses I owned. I used to love strutting my stuff and feeling like a million bucks in my sparkly dresses. That is until I would be complemented by one of the men or boys at which point I would retort that I knew I looked good and stomp away.

Perhaps I was a feminist even way back then...

When I think of these examples, especially the ones around Sunday school I often think it highlights just how truly disempowering the church was. Girls really were meant to be silent and docile and were not encouraged to be loud, creative or imaginative. Any notion of advancement would be met with discouragement and I see now how the mental grooming started immediately. It’s no wonder I used to sit in the corner of little Sunday school and pick a hole in the wall while no body was looking.