Category: homeschool | Page 7 | Spiritual Abuse Blogs

Curse of the Cult

Being raised my entire life in the controlling atmosphere of this type of religion left permanent scars on me. Sometimes, when I think about it, I feel so angry and betrayed! The cult dynamic leaves you feeling helpless and unable to make it through life on your own.

It’s so powerful because it robs you of your individuality, your independence, and your trust in your own thoughts. It takes away who you are and changes you into a clone. You lose your identity and accept the ideology that you’re going to be some great soldier for Christ, all for the greater good, etc.

In reality what you’re doing is checking your brain at the door, and becoming just another robot marching to the tune of the leader. This pastor is just a man, who has developed his own interpretation of what the Bible says, often to fit his own needs and his own desires. And yet, he himself is deceived into thinking that he’s doing the “will of God.” They have all the power, but they have been trained to think and to truly believe that this is what God wants them to do.

My personal brainwashing began when I was just a baby. I’ve written about how I was trained from a child with spankings that began before I learned to walk or talk. I was under the power of the preacher/father before I had any memory of my existence.

Growing up in this atmosphere, whether by nature or by early early training, I was extremely sensitive, eager to please, and tenderhearted. That left me wide-open to become the biggest clone of all. The model robot I became, and I was very skilled at doing everything I was asked to do. I never went through the rebellion that teenagers go through, for the most part, because I had been trained to be so sensitive to the slightest misbehavior that might throw me out of favor, “with God.”

I did it because I really wanted to please God. I did it because I was scared of what God would do to me if I didn’t measure up. I also did it because I love God. How could I love something I feared so much? I guess because I loved and feared my dad in the same way.

I was taught from early on to be sensitive to my dad’s moods and get out of his way if he seemed like he was tired and grouchy. I was trained not to talk to him if he was busy, because I would be bothering him. I was trained in so many other ways.

I loved his hugs and his cuddles, when they were given, and the rare approval that I saw in his eyes. Yet I feared him so much that I was scared to ask for anything that I wanted. I knew that I could approach him any time to tell him that I loved him or to give him a hug, but I knew that if he looked at me sternly, I was in huge trouble.

That’s the same way I looked at God. For the better part of my life, even as a grown adult, I was scared to make a move without the approval of the pastor. I was scared to think a thought that would be contrary to what was taught by the pastor. I was scared to make a choice on my own without seeking his advice. Many people, grown men and women, we’re afraid to make purchases, or move, or get a new job without consulting the pastor first to get his approval on those choices. The pastor’s approval was equated with God’s approval.

When one lives in this environment, without using their own brain, getting out can be very difficult…even scary. For the first time in your life you have no one else to blame for your mistakes. If anything goes wrong, you have to take responsibility for your choices. You’ve not had much practice making choices, so it’s a pretty sure thing that you’re going to make some wrong choices along the way. That could be terrifying, especially when people from the cult point their fingers at you and say “well you should’ve stayed in the church.. you should’ve asked pastor for advice and followed his advice.”

The thing is, we don’t learn how to make choices without making them. Our brains are like muscles. If they haven’t been exercised, they will buckle under weight. When other people were making small choices like what kind of clothes to wear for school, or whether or not they wanted to try out for the football team, we were not allowed to make those choices.

We couldn’t choose our friends, we couldn’t choose what activities we wanted to do, we couldn’t choose what music that we wanted to listen to, or what entertainment we enjoyed. We never learned to choose what clothing we wanted to wear, what hairstyle we enjoyed the most, or whether not we wanted to wear make up. We were given instructions to follow about all these personal things. We didn’t learn how to make choices.

When we finally break free from the cult and we start trying to make decisions and choices, we don’t really have any background information to use to make the wise decisions. We are in terror trying to decide and often it is difficult to make any decision at all. However not making a decision is a decision, and that’s where we get into trouble. That’s where things get difficult for us, because life gets a little harried.

I’ve had my own list of ‘bad choices’ to try to live with, once I got out on my own and could actually make these decisions for myself. However, I’m learning to make decisions. I’m learning how to balance my budget. I’m learning to make career choices, life choices, and of course wardrobe choices, hairstyle choices and even ‘how to raise my kids’ choices. Do I always make the right decisions? No, absolutely not! However, I learn more and more.

Each failure is only a step in the right direction, because I can take that information and use it for future choices.

Yes, I grew up in a cult. You talk about a dysfunctional family! It was a dysfunctional world where we were not allowed to fellowship with anyone else. I was homeschooled, and my entire life revolved around the cult.

Getting out brought such freedom! But, getting out also brought a lot of terror and fear.

Every day I still deal with the brainwashing. Every day I am filled with self-doubt. Every day I battle those little voices from the past who tell me that I’m “nothing but a worm,” that I don’t have a right to make my own decisions, that I need to lean on the words of someone else to try to understand what God wants of me. It’s the perfect recipe for codependency.

We were taught that we could not make it on our own without leaning on the church and the pastor. We were trained to not make it on our own without the direction and control of the pastor. I sometimes feel completely helpless, trapped, and very dysfunctional. However, I have to cut myself some slack when I stop and think about the years and years and years where I was not allowed to make choices, to think for myself, and where I was taught that I had to have someone else to lean on.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be confident and independent from the past. I know those scars have affected me for life in many ways. However, every step I take to be more independent, and every choice that I make gets me just a little bit closer to being the individual that I really want to be.

Evangelism in the United Pentecostal Church

I was five or maybe six when we first started evangelizing in a small trailer. I remember how tense things would get when it was time to get ready for church. We would have to climb up on the bed and be very quiet and still while dad would get ready for church. We often got in trouble for not being quiet enough or still enough. Once dad was out of the trailer, mom would get me ready and send me to him, then get my sister and herself ready. I later discovered the reason for this was because the trailer was too small for more than one person to move around at once. This is the same reason we were allowed only two or three toys each.

Evangelizing meant lots and lots of church, everywhere, all the time. I heard my parents stressing over offerings that were not big enough to take care of our family. I heard conversations where dad got reprimanded for something he preached at a church. Once my bike was stolen when we were parked outside of the church. I never got it back.

Homeschooling while living that lifestyle was the worst ever! I can recall mom being so frustrated trying to teach me that she would send me inside the church, where my dad would be studying, in some area that the pastor had allowed him to use. He would try to teach me, but without fail, it would end up with him yelling at me, and then I would be too anxious to think straight. Although I later found out that I was fairly intelligent, I sure didn’t feel it during those times.

Eventually we ended up parked for several months outside a family member’s church in a different state. This family member pastored what, at the time, seem like a fairly large United Pentecostal church. I remember being babysat by a couple of teenage girls in the church. It was funny because the girls would spell things to each other, thinking that they were talking above our heads, not realizing that I very well knew how to spell those words. They were often talking about the pastor’s sons and their romantic involvement with them. It was not a very positive conversation.

At one point, this church ran a huge campaign on a college campus in that city. The campaign was to advertise a series of services they were planning to have, to expose the rock music agenda. I remember being terrified during those services as rock songs were played backwards to reveal secret messages, and fearful language was used to “bring conviction”. The place was packed out, but I don’t remember what the results of the services were. I do remember being terrified, and standing with my mom in the back, and then my mother taking us out, because the content was too scary for us. I appreciate her doing that.

There were a lot of private adult conversations that went on during that time, and I was vaguely aware of unrest. I never figured out the gist of those conversations. Abruptly, we left, and my dad took the pastorate of another small church.

At this new church they had a tradition of singing happy birthday every Sunday morning to all the people who had birthdays, and singing to all the people who were having anniversaries. Oddly enough, the anniversary song was “When the Battle’s Over, We Shall Wear a Crown”. I remember thinking that marriage must be really difficult.

We did not stay at this location very long. Again, I was too small to know all the details, but apparently my dad “butted heads ” with some of the older people in the church and was either asked to leave, or realized it was best to leave. We were again evangelizing, homeschooling, and experiencing family stress. We were in church services constantly.

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UPC from a Child’s Perspective

My earliest memories were of my mom, dad, and maternal grandparents, who were apparently helping my father build a church in a town that did not have a United Pentecostal church. I can remember my preacher Grandpa working on the building and my grandmother taking me out to see him on the scaffolding. I recall my mother reading me Bible stories, and some visiting preacher teasing me about my imaginary friends. I often played in my dad’s workplace, as he could not provide for the family without working a secular job.

When I look back at the pictures of that time, I see a happy little girl with curly blond hair and the prettiest dresses. The pictures nor the memories of that time reveal anything to me other than being loved and cared for. I wonder if my parents were perhaps different then. I heard them tell stories of “winning a family to God” only to find out that the man was beating his wife, so my dad addressed that with him and he eventually stopped. These are the stories I was told.

Eventually, we left there and went to another town where my dad took the pastorate of a church. I was preschool age, but I do remember him telling my mother about going to the home of one of the parishioners uninvited, at an unexpected moment because he felt the man was being deceptive about his lifestyle. He “caught” the man watching TV, which was strictly prohibited by the UPC at that time, and he confronted the man about it. The man made up lie after lie as an excuse to hide this “sin”.

There was a woman in that church who suffered from bulimia. I remember the judgement and disgust with which she was discussed, with never any hint that this could be a serious illness. As a mental health provider, I now cringe at what she must have suffered in addition to the bulimia and its root causes. Religion without compassion can be very hard on people with mental health issues.

By that time I had an infant sibling. I remember church people getting mad at my parents for taking my sister out to spank her during church for things like fussing during church or other such age appropriate things. I remember being spanked with a “skinny belt” for asking one parent if I could go home with a friend and when that parent said no, asking the other parent.

My friends in the church had me over to their house one day in December and their mother said, in front of me, that there was no difference in a Christmas tree and the Christmas lights my mother had in our home. I was about five and I can still feel how sad I was when I told mom what these people had said, only to watch in horror as she took down all of the Christmas decorations in order not to “confuse and offend” church people who were being taught it was a “sin” to put up their Christmas trees.

My dad was often joking and fun during that time with us, and with his preacher friends. I often heard them sit around the table and argue about scriptures, and then in the next breath tell racial jokes that are appalling to me now.

During that time, I first became aware that I was “lost” because I didn’t have the Holy Ghost. I went down to the altar and cried, not understanding everything yet. I told my family I was now a Christian and had the Holy Ghost because I went to the altar and prayed. They explained to me that I had to “speak in another language” in order to get the Holy Ghost. My sister by this time was getting old enough to play church with me. We were strictly forbidden to ever play like we were “getting the Holy Ghost” by jabbering nonsense. Instead, we would close our mouths tight and jump around to show that we were “getting the Holy Ghost” in order to not play with sacred things. I have a distinct memory of a teen who was “seeking” the Holy Ghost and fell out on the floor with people all around her. I was fascinated by watching her mouth upside down as she was speaking in tongues.

I was constantly watching my baby sister with a stuffed animal in church and feeling so jealous because I wasn’t allowed to play. I would secretly pretend my Bible was a baby and I was it’s mother, but if I moved it around too much I’d get in trouble so I had to be careful.

Eventually there was some kind of church problems of which I’m still not clear on all the details, but my dad resigned that church and bought a trailer to evangelize. They were already homeschooling me, so they would continue to do so as we traveled around the United States. I’ve heard my parents recount often the story of how they “dusted their shoes off” out the window of the vehicle as they left that town. My dad says God showed him there would never be a thriving church in that town because of the rebellion in the hearts of those people.

I was just a little girl. I don’t know the ins and outs, or if the people were truly rebellious. I can only share what I remember and have heard from that time.

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Things Kept Crumbling

After Mom started preaching, pretty soon she decided that I was too fragile and unstable for public school, and that all the problems I was having were due to the pressures of first and second grade. So, she decided that I would be homeschooled. I didn’t want this, I begged and pleaded with her to let me stay with my friends, but to no avail. School was the only ‘normal’ thing in my life, and I wanted it to continue even though our way of dressing made it difficult. But, second grade was as far as I got to go in public school, I began homeschooling in third grade.

The first few years of homeschooling were pretty uneventful. Then, something strange happened. One Sunday morning, my parents announced that Dad was going to church with us. I was so excited, if Dad would just ‘get in’, I figured we could be happy. ‘Normal’. Dad went to church with us regularly for a few months, even going up and praying a few times. All the church people were very welcoming to him, even ones that he’d met in the past and been rude to. Things were going great.

For some reason I didn’t understand, soon after Dad started going to church him and Mom told us that Dad was going to go live somewhere else for awhile. To me and my sister, this was completely unexpected. What was even more unexpected was the reaction of our church. I was around 7, but adults in the church felt free to ask me questions that they would never have asked my Mom. Every service, people would catch me without Mom around and start asking questions. “Where’s your Dad? Why isn’t he coming to church anymore? Does he still live with you? Do you get to see him? Are your parents divorcing?” These questions were coming from adults, not adolescents. Sunday School teachers, song leaders, youth pastors… no matter what their position in the church, they didn’t seem to care what kind of pain and embarrassment they brought on a little child whose home had been ripped apart, they were only concerned with their blood lust for juicy gossip.

This was my first experience with emotional pain from outside the church being made worse by those in it. It would not be the last.

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