The UnBoxing Project: Cynthia Jeub’s story

Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on March 10, 2015 as part of a series. 

Continued from Ashley’s story.

I introduced Racquel and Ashley to Cynthia Jeub (now known as Artemis Stardust) shortly before they left their church, the First United Pentecostal Church of Colorado Springs.

We had both been homeschooled and raised in a Christian fundamentalist, Quiverfull environment. We went to college together and were both editors for our college’s newspaper. Here is their part of the story, in their own words. 

Mouth shut like a locket
Like you’ve nothing to say
Speak your mind up,
Come on, baby, free yourself…
Don’t let nobody try and take your soul
You’re the original. – Switchfoot

I met Racquel over the phone.

She explained that her best friend, Ashley, was being kept from attending her college classes, and her parents had taken away all contact to the outside world — no Internet, no cell phone, and she couldn’t drive.

“We can get her a cheap cellphone,” I said. “One she can hide, and use in case of an emergency. It’s dangerous if she won’t be able to contact anyone.”

Racquel hesitated.

“I’m not sure if it’s really that big of a deal,” she said. “They’ve only done it a few times, and it made her get behind at school, but I really trust our pastor.”

It would be several weeks before we met in person. We had an argument. Her church was a large congregation of Protestants who spent most of their Sunday meeting time meditating and speaking in tongues.

She told me that the pastor could always tell if your spirit was in the right place or not, based on his communication with the Holy Spirit. I asked if the pastor had any accountability, but she found it unthinkable that he’d say anything that wasn’t true.

Racquel said that though she loved horses, she wasn’t allowed to enter any competitions. She agreed with the church doctrine, she said, because it kept people humble.

Winning competitions, or even trying to be good at something or to look good, was distracting from drawing attention toward God and away from oneself.

That conversation bothered me because it was so backwards: I was taught to pursue excellence, because it brought glory to God, and I was a living sacrifice.

We lived on two sides of the same self-deception.

// // //

It was early 2013, and I drove an hour to the airport to pick up my dad from one of his events. He asked about school and life, and I confided about the exciting things going on: I was rescuing abused adults from cult-like fundamentalist families.

The first person who got out was Eleanor.

I wasn’t there when they moved into their first apartment, but I was part of the group of friends that gave them support as they adjusted to life away from home for the first time in their early twenties.

After that, Eleanor did most of the networking.

They didn’t go looking for these people, they just found them everywhere — in their classes and at work, they found people in the many cult-like churches of Colorado Springs, adults still living at home, adults with weakened self-confidence, adults with limited skills and resources, all trying to get out, all trapped and afraid.

In our little group, I earned the title of “the logical one.”

Eleanor and our other friend, Cynthia Barram, turned to me as the no-nonsense anchor. When Eleanor found someone who was in a bad situation with their church or family, they’d connect them with me, and I’d check the facts. Then we’d find small solutions — things like helping people get a car, cellphone, job, or place to live.

Several people were trapped because their parents wouldn’t even let them get a driver’s license.

I networked with the homeschool families I already knew, and asked them if they could provide safe houses for these young adults. I wanted parents who were good homeschoolers, not abusive, who could demonstrate that homeschooling could be done in a way that wasn’t harmful.

If such parents had a guest bedroom, we could send homeschooled alumni there to pay rent, while still having parental figures who could provide support without the intense control their own parents used.

The homeschooling community could respond, I thought. They could prove to those who’d been abused that it wasn’t all this bad.

It surprised me to find so few homeschooling parents who were willing to help.

I related all of this to my dad, and he quickly shut me down.

“Don’t get between rebellious kids and their parents,” he said. “I do not support this. You don’t know the families and the full stories. You shouldn’t get involved with this at all.”

“Daddy, I think these situations are… different. There are some rebellious kids…”

I didn’t say Alicia, because my older sister’s name was so taboo in our family that it was always implied, and I didn’t want to hurt my father’s feelings.

“But there are also some very controlling churches and families, and they don’t ever let their kids, especially daughters, grow up. Even if they’re adults.”

He grunted severe disapproval, signaling that the conversation was over. That was the most we ever argued, because I always succumbed. I turned up some of the classic rock music he’d introduced me to, and let it drown out any awkwardness in the car.

I decided I cared too much for those girls I’d met to just leave them in those suffocating situations. This was just one more thing I’d stop talking to my dad about.

// // //

Eleanor and our little crew kept working to help people.

We helped one young woman escape from an arranged marriage, and gave resources to people whose parents kept them from contact with the outside world.

Mostly, we talked to our friends who were in cults about their aspirations and personalities, and helped them see their controlling churches as obstacles to what they wanted out of life.

The common theme was that we all had our own problems to sort. I thought there weren’t any problems with my family, but then I needed to fall back on our group more than once. Our friend Suzana supported me when I got drunk for the first time in my life, a few days after my parents kicked me out.

Eleanor was frustrated with how Racquel and Ashley couldn’t see that their church was a cult, but they still kept in touch with her own overbearing parents.

We’d all lost the trusted older-generation adults in our lives, so we leaned on each other, but we were still young and inexperienced and unstable.

I posted an article on the Huffington Post about my frustration with freeing people. I couldn’t control them, but I also knew they wouldn’t stand up for themselves. I was tired of waiting.

I found out later that Ashley used a code name when she talked about me to her mother, because she was afraid her parents might find my writings and deduce that she was planning to leave.

In December, Eleanor sent out a distress signal to the group.

Ashley’s father discovered she was dating a guy outside the church and said he was kicking her out.

Around 6 a.m. on December 16, 2013, Ashley’s father texted her that he was dumping her possessions outside their apartment at 3 p.m.

Eleanor and Racquel left with Ashley to collect her things in Cynthia Barram’s van while her parents were at work.

When Suzana and I arrived, her bedroom furnishings were strewn about.

Racquel drew our attention to the picture frames.

Ashley’s father had removed the family photos with Ashley from the walls and laid them face down in a corner, a symbol that her family had already disowned her for rebelling against the church.

Her father had also damaged the car she drove by tearing off the rubber lining in the door. And dumped out her purse in the car.

Racquel’s parents were less strict, and she moved out on slightly less dramatic terms.

Eleanor was living in a two-bedroom apartment with a roommate who had also left fundamentalist Christianity, and they now housed three extra refugees there, including another girl who worked with us at the school newspaper.

It was too small for all of them, so they moved into a house together, sharing the costs.

Cynthia Jeub writes about philosophy, religion, and growing up in a Quiverfull homeschool family of 16 and being on their television show Kids By The Dozen at cynthiajeub.com. They studied communication and theater at the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs, where they were a reporter and culture editor at the campus newspaper, The Scribe.

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The UnBoxing Project: Ashley’s story

Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on March 9, 2015 as part of a series. 

Continued from Defecting from a cult

Editorial Note: Although Ashley is a survivor of a Christian fundamentalist cult, unfortunately she became abusive herself. She has been reported to several law enforcement agencies for human trafficking others from 2017-2019. She is the abusive partner mentioned in this post from 2022.

I keep Ashley’s story on the blog as a reminder that those who do not heal from their own trauma can and often do end up harming others. If you see online fundraisers for Ashley or her current partners, please know that anything you donate may enable her to continue to cause harm, and we would caution anyone against donating to her. If you know where she is, please report her to the authorities since she has been avoiding speaking to investigators for several years.

Content Note: spiritual abuse, self-harm, victim-blaming

Ashley grew up attending the First United Pentecostal Church of Colorado Springs, now known as Heritage Pentecostal Church. This is Ashley’s story, told in her own words. 

Do you know what it’s like when
You’re scared to see yourself?
Do you know what it’s like when
You wish it were someone else
Who didn’t need your help to get by?
Do you know what it’s like
To wanna surrender?
I don’t wanna feel like this tomorrow
I don’t wanna live like this today
Make me feel better, I wanna feel better
Stay with me here now and never surrender
Never surrender. – Surrender, Skillet

“Mama! Mama! Look at the butterfly!” I squealed in delight at the wonder perched on my shoulder.

“Don’t move, Lovey! It’ll fly away.”

I stood as still as possible as my mom snapped a picture of this beautiful creature, and watched as it flew away. I remember thinking as I watched the butterfly float into a beautiful, summer day, how amazing it would be to be able to just whisk yourself away whenever you chose.

I had no idea how much I would pine for that fantasy to become a reality.

I always remember my parents being there, no matter what the occasion was. Pajama day at school, grown-up day, job day, doctor’s appointments, they were always present. I can’t remember an important event they were not there for.

I went to them with everything, no matter how strange, and they were always brutally honest with me. I liked it that way. Being a straightforward person, I needed that to grow. Things were always so comfortable — and then 2001 came and everything changed. Drastically.

My mom had gotten involved with a church when she was 15, and the experience had always stayed with her. She had visited a Pentecostal holiness church and had received what they call the Holy Ghost, which to them is the basis of salvation. You cannot attain Heaven without it, and once you have received it, even if you walk away from God, you are marked and you will be a target for Satan.

My dad, on the other hand, is Irish/German and was raised Catholic. He was actually an altar boy growing up and wanted to become a priest. However, he grew out of that sometime in high school.

While living in Louisiana, my mom met a girl named Billie Jo, and they went to a Pentecostal church together. My mom converted all the way this time (lost the pants, threw away the jewelry, chucked the TV and music) and as soon as my dad joined, we essentially became Amish with microwaves.

Ashley (center) at a church outreach and evangelism event called Youth with Truth at Acacia Park in downtown Colorado Springs on June 29, 2013. | Photo: First United Pentecostal Church of Colorado Springs

But even then, my parents broke me in slowly.

As an only child, I had practically every Disney movie known to man, and they allowed me to hand over my Disney movies in exchange for Veggie Tales. From there, it was my Veggie Tales traded in for either a trampoline or a puppy. My daddy bought me both.

They introduced me into that world slowly, and with ease. I appreciated that, even then. I knew they could have completely ripped everything away from me and made the transition harder than it already was. But they didn’t.

I never thanked them for that. I guess it kind of got buried under everything other emotion that surfaced after.

At first, things weren’t so bad. The family environment was great. Having no family in Colorado, the church appeared to be exactly what we needed. I started going to the church school which consisted of about 50 kids. I made friends quickly, and it seemed so easy at first. We were accepted as new converts and everything was cool.

My parents also made friends, and were treated like family by the pastor. They were like their kids.

I believe this is what started the depth of my parents’ relationship with the ministry. Around 2006, the pastor decided he wanted to evangelize and ended up electing a man from Mississippi to pastor the church.

I’ve never seen a man so hell bent on changing people for the worst.

Brother and Sister Burgess at Ashley’s high school graduation. | Photo: Ashley Kavanaugh

To my parents, this couple took the place of God. I have literally heard my dad say that if John Burgess asked him to stand on his head for 6 hours a day, in the middle of Interstate 25, that he would do it without hesitation.

They believe that he is the voice of God, that even if he is wrong, and they sin because of his advice, that God would honor their obedience and look past their own wrongdoing.

The church services are filled with hype and the sermons are mostly guilt, especially directed at young people. They warn us of the wrath of God if we choose to walk away and almost every service we are reminded of the horrors that have happened to backsliders all through Pentecostal history, including those from our own youth group.

One of the stories of backsliders was one of my close friends Sharonda.

She grew up with me, my mom babysat her and her older sister, and I looked up to this girl. She was my idol for a long time. She was my piano inspiration, she was cool, and she loved people.

I’ve never met a heart as big as Sharonda’s.

She was shot and killed late summer 2012. The case was never solved, and the Burgesses made not only her death, but also her funeral, an omen and message to all of us, that we should not run from God, for he is a jealous God, and his vengeance is strong.

She is seldom mentioned among the young people. It just hurts too much.

Brother John Burgess leading prayer during church outreach event called Youth With Truth at Acacia Park in downtown Colorado Springs on June 29, 2013. | Photo: First United Pentecostal Church of Colorado Springs

The Burgesses continued to push their way into the minds of the church, and more and more young people have been driven away from God.

Most of the “backsliders” that I know don’t even believe in a benevolent God anymore.

This started to become my opinion very young. I couldn’t see how any of this made sense. I thought the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob was just and honorable? Not malicious and manipulative.

After my parents began to blindly follow the pastor, I started to lose control. I shut off all emotions because I just couldn’t handle them anymore. I began to get more and more reclusive, and eventually began to blame myself for the guilt and pain that my parents were dealing with due to the controlling ways of the church.

I didn’t know how to get help, and I began to fall into a deeper depression. I began to self-harm. This was done in so many ways, I can’t even begin to explain it all. Eventually, the self-harm wasn’t enough. I attempted suicide six times, starting at the age of 11.

I tried everything. Nothing worked.

My mom caught me cutting once and literally dragged me in to Shanna Burgess (the pastor’s wife), who promptly told me as I lay on the floor, bleeding, that it was all in my head, and I needed to stop being so angry at God.

She told me I was the one to blame.

After coming to her weeks before with my heart wide open and breaking in pieces, I explained one reason why I felt so alone. I was sexually assaulted when I was 6 years old and had no way to express my feelings. She, of course, immediately took this information to my mother, who denied it.

My parents have never believed me. Sister Burgess told me I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself because come on, it never happened!

I hated them before but after this? I could never forgive them.

Brother and Sister Burgess had and still have a hold on my parents like nothing I’ve ever seen.

(Left to right) Brother John Burgess, Ashley Kavanaugh, and Kevin Kavanaugh at Heritage Christian Academy’s 2012 high school graduation. Heritage Christian Academy is a private, unaccredited school operated by the First United Pentecostal Church of Colorado Springs. | Photo: Ashley Kavanaugh

When I turned 18, things started to look up. I was finally allowed to have a phone because I had turned 18 (pastor’s rules for youth), I was finally granted rights to a car (that I bought, of course), and everything was going good.

I had been in good graces with the Burgesses and my family. I was following the rules to perfection.

And then after a falling out with my best friend at the time, I started to become close friends with a girl named Racquel. We began to grow closer and closer as the months went on, and before you knew it, we were opening up to each other. I told her things I had never told anyone ever.

Eventually, our concerns about the church and their doctrines, the Burgesses and all sorts of other questions came to the forefront of our conversations and we began to discuss them.

We grew even closer after learning about some of the abuse that the other one had endured.

We got caught discussing these topics, and we were separated and forbidden to speak to one another. This happened four times.

Each time we grew closer and closer and eventually, we started to go to extreme lengths to see each other. My parents and the Burgesses resorted to lying to both of us, trying to force us to hate each other.

After another six months of not speaking, we once again rebelled and talked about what had happened. We realized they had lied to both of us, obtaining information by hacking email and bank accounts. My parents forced me to stop attending my college classes because Racquel might try to visit me there.

We communicated to each other through Eleanor for about three weeks, and then we started to sneak out again.

We had contemplated running away many times before, but something was different this time.

When two adults aren’t allowed to talk because they get caught listening to One Direction, there’s some serious malfunction going on. It had reached an all-time idiocy and we had enough.

We both left home, and the night I did that was the hardest decision of my life.

Three days later, my dad was going to throw my stuff on the sidewalk. My mom, who was out of town at the time, convinced him to let me come pack my stuff, so he left for a few hours.

Racquel and Eleanor went with me. The first thing I noticed when I came in was that all my pictures were taken off the walls and lay facing down. Some sat in piles on the floor. I almost lost it then.

I just remember feeling like my parents died, and I was cleaning out their house.

A little later, Cynthia Jeub and another friend also came over. I’ll never forget the look on Cynthia’s face when I saw her. I walked outside to greet them, and she just looked so disturbed. But there was also pride in her eyes.

She hugged me for a good ten minutes. I’ve never expressed how much that hug meant to me.

They helped me pack up, and I decided last minute to check my mom’s car. I went to look for any remaining items, and when I opened the door, I saw that the inside of the car was destroyed.

I can only assume my dad went crazy and trashed the car. It was really scary.

Everyone was panicking because we didn’t know when he was coming back, and he had guns, so people were starting to freak out. We left not long after.

It didn’t really hit me until then, how drastic the change was going to be.

Since then, I have gone through a lot. I’ve put myself through an abusive relationship, made myself be something I wasn’t, lost connection with my family for months at a time because of “religious differences,” moved around a lot, found out I was adopted by my dad, been through a ton of counseling, self-harmed, ran from my home state, even shut my humanity off a few times.

But one thing I can say I haven’t, nor will I ever do, is forget who I am and where I came from.

I can’t express how hard it has been. The sleepless nights, the thousands of times I’ve cried myself to sleep, and woke up screaming. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

But you know what? I don’t regret it. I can’t. I’ve invested too much into this decision to fault it.

To those of you trying to escape, it’s not impossible. It’s not easy, but I promise its worth it.

We have helped more people come out since my decision to leave, and the feeling is so liberating, knowing you are a voice and a model for them.

To those of you who have siblings that are still in captivity, don’t give up hope. They will make it. YOU are their light, no matter how dark you feel sometimes. Because sometimes the darkest shadows have been cast by the brightest lights.

And no matter what bad choices you make long the way, I’ve found that I don’t have to be ashamed of them. Because they are finally my decisions.

So while wading through your red river of screams just as we have, remember you do not fight alone. You can make it.

And never surrender…. the battle will be worth it, and we will win the war.
I don’t wanna feel like this tomorrow
I don’t wanna live like this today
Make me feel better, I wanna feel better
Stay with me here now and never surrender
Never surrender

Ashley Kavanaugh attended public school during her elementary school years, but her parents later chose to homeschool her online when they joined the First United Pentecostal Church of Colorado Springs. She finished her senior year of high school at Heritage Christian Academy, the private school operated by that church. Her adopted father is an attorney, but she was the first person on her mother’s side of the family to finish high school and attend college. She is interested in studying psychology, forensics, and criminal justice.

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Blindsided: Skeleton #1: Manipulating the Broken

**Names marked with an asterisk (*) have been changed for the privacy of individuals and their families**

Throughout my breastfeeding journeys, I often wondered how I could possibly survive, but the Lord provided the most intricate life-support system, not only through my closest friends, but through complete strangers as well. My closest friends and those relationships developed through various breastfeeding support groups are what made it possible to endure the intense anxiety and agonizing depths of depression during my postpartum periods. They witnessed the toll the church breastfeeding situation took on me and my family for months at a time as I perpetually justified the wrongs of my church’s inner circle, and knowing I blamed myself, they never gave up.

My friends listened to my frustrations and held me close, while those in breastfeeding support groups encouraged me to assert my rights, even publicly if necessary, by going to the media or by simply allowing them to stage a nurse-in as a cry for justice. Instead, I “suffered myself [and my family] to be defrauded” for the cause of Christ. Countless nights left me tossing and turning without answers despite the hundreds of tear-filled days I wasted away, consumed with researching and attempting to lighten the burden I felt that *I* had placed on my church family and on my husband. My sacrifices, however, were to no avail, because the inner circle was not willing to show true compassion and give back just a little of what they took. I continued to break yet the more, longing for a peaceful resolution, but not once did I assume that my own pastor and pastor’s wife, Andrew and Lula Ray, had been working behind the scenes to intensify my burdens. I rightfully expected my pastor to respect reasonable boundaries, but instead, he attempted to manipulate me through those closest to me, all the while knowing I struggled with suicidal ideation because of postpartum depression and anxiety.

Shielded Arrows From Behind

Shortly after Douglas Stauffer’s carnal message during the 2018 Bible Conference, and within proximity of the time Seth Razler* accused me of giving my church the “middle finger” every time I nursed in the service, several close friends revealed that Pastor Ray and/or Lula Ray had approached them, requesting that they would meet with us, hopefully coercing us back in the isolated mother’s room. Thankfully, each one of those friends embodied character and honesty enough to protect someone that was simply trying to survive. One of those families came and sat with us for support without saying a word about what happened. Another, a peacemaker, unknowingly sent me into a mental spiral when she encouraged me to show “spiritual maturity” by going to the mother’s room, but she continued to invite us to join her family during the church services despite my response and never faltered in supporting me in the months to come. The third family that we were made aware of, the Martins*, further revealed a side of the Rays that we had never seen before the 2018 Bible Conference.

Hierarchy Before Friendship

One would assume that the Rays would have shown the Martins* due respect considering their years of unbreakable friendship, but when Celine Martin* clearly stated that she was not going to approach me about nursing based on her own values, Andrew Ray proceeded to go “over” Mrs. Martin* to convince her husband to “lead” as “head” of the family. As per the status quo at Antioch Baptist Church, the assertive refusal of a woman was not sufficient. Thankfully, Dennis Martin* also refused, leaving no other levels to manipulate, and the Rays hands tied by the law.

Law of Liberty or Liability?

According to Tennessee law, “A mother may breastfeed in any public or private place she is authorized to be” and according to an amendment to that law (TCA 68-58-102), “breastfeeding shall not be considered public indecency or nudity, obscene, or sexual conduct.”

Shortly after my second child was born, I had made the mistake of presenting this last to my Pastor Andrew Ray and Lula Ray out of concern that a future visitor could stage a nurse-in (the equivalent of a sit-in) or that our church could incur legal ramifications. Unbeknown to me, it appears Andrew and Lula determined my act of devotion to be a literal, active threat to Antioch Baptist Church, and likely began to determine ways to work through loopholes in the law.

In this series I share my thoughts and opinions concerning these ministers and the events which led to my departure. Click here to continue reading: “Blindsided: Skeleton #2: The Destruction of a Young Girl” or click on a title below. [Links will be added as new blogs are posted.]

Blindsided Series

Part One: Red Flags and Rose-Colored Glasses

Part Two: Calloused Carnality and Hidden Harassment
(Sunday, June 3, 2018- Tuesday, June 5, 2018)

Part Three: Navigating the Masks of Deceit
(Wednesday, June 6, 2018- Sunday, June 17, 2018)

Part Four: Discerning a Diotrephes: Douglas Stauffer

Part Five: When Closet Skeletons Speak

Part Seven: Rising Up from the Ashes

Wingless: Kindred Spirits

It stands to reason that parenting doesn’t come with a manual because every child is different. How easy it would be to know exactly when and how a child will react, or calculate the date at which they will begin to crawl, walk, and talk. Or what to do to turn off a public meltdown like a light switch. There are a plethora of parenting books out there, but at the end of the day, one can only glean general advice that may or may not apply.

Adults are the same way. We’re all uniquely created. Psalm 139:14 (NIV) says, “I praise you, because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”

My interpretation: “God doesn’t make junk!”

We aren’t junk. I know this now. It’s taken me a long, long time to know this. John 3:16 says that God LOVES us. We sang songs about this, even in the spiritually-abusive churches I attended. But why was this not displayed? One minute, we’re worms; filthy rags, destined for hellfire. We slip up even a little, then we’re separated from God and we can miss the rapture and go to hell. The next, we’re singing ‘Jesus Loves Me.’

This thinking kept me bound in fear constantly as the years passed in the church. Fear, depression, anxiety— all symptoms of underlying mental health conditions, exacerbated by my environment. I saw what I perceived to be strong, “perfect” Pentecostals around me, and it slowly killed me inside to know I wasn’t like them. My heart just didn’t feel as… in it. They prayed an hour a day and fasted regularly. I could barely focus enough to pray more than five minutes without falling asleep. Fasting was a no-go for me because of a medical condition.

When I read the Bible— the strongly-recommended King James Version, like a good Pentecostal— I had trouble interpreting the vague, flowery text (one reason I relied so heavily on the preached/taught interpretations). I wanted to read and write fantasy and sci-fi novels, but anything to do with magic and aliens was seen as evil. And so my imagination was chained unless I covertly sinned and wrote in secret (which, I confess, I ended up doing).

And why did I have such a hard time “witnessing” to people? We were constantly commissioned over the pulpit to bring people to church; to tell them our testimony. I could make friends (though it took me a long time to come out of my shell enough to do so), but, over time, I found that I didn’t want to change them. They were my friends because I liked them.

My initial haughtiness I had when I first got into the church had long since faded, and now I felt low beyond low. I thought it was a sin to love myself. How could I lie to people and tell them that church was a bed of roses and there was joy unspeakable when all I felt was unspeakable sorrow? Over and over, I brought it to the altar. I claimed victory. I’d feel great after an evening service, perhaps, but then that feeling would fade quickly. It was nothing but a band-aid on a wound that cut to the bone.

Between all of my own issues and dealing with Stella’s increasing behavioral issues and obvious developmental delays, I began to feel like an overall failure. And the only advice I could ever get from the church was “Pray about it. Give it to God,” or some other lovely platitude. Even at the altar, when I sobbed and begged God to send me a friend, some real support, I would look around to find no one. No hand laying on my shoulder to pray with me. And I assumed it meant I wasn’t worthy. In reality, that probably was not the case, but when you’re so deep in mire, your vision is clouded.

My panic attacks were coming on strong and constant. I became afraid to be around people more and more. I didn’t want to leave the house, or hardly get out of bed when I was home. Thoughts of leaving this world played through my mind on repeat. The house was going to heck in a hand basket, and things were reaching a breaking point. One night, during a particularly bad panic attack, my husband got frustrated and asked me what was wrong with me. I started crying and told him, “I just want to die! I want to die…”

At that point, I should’ve gone to a hospital. Paul should’ve taken me. Looking back, I know that now. But we were in an environment where mental health was still not talked about as openly, and not doing well was not okay. Paul didn’t know how to handle it. He felt as helpless as I did. Somehow, I survived in that moment. I clung to my husband, and we made it through.

After that awful night, I did something new: I sought help from a psychiatrist.

My nerves were riled with anxious energy, sitting in that waiting room. Would I have to lay on a couch? Tell her about my childhood? Was she going to hypnotize me? Would I still be a good witness to her even after she learned of all my issues? I’d heard all kinds of things about “shrinks,” and I wasn’t fully sure what to expect.

When it was finally my turn to go back to the office, I took a deep breath. I was greeted by a pretty, smiling woman with dark, curly hair in a light gray pantsuit. She introduced herself as Dr. Rolling and had me sit in a black, cushioned leather chair across from her at her L-shaped, cherrywood desk. The sunlight was pouring through the wall of windows at my back. It was a pleasant atmosphere.

“So, tell me about yourself?” she asked.

My story came out slowly at first, but was soon pouring out like the tipping of a bucket. Dr. Rolling listened intently, making lots of notes. She didn’t pass one iota of judgment when I told her about my storms, and my panic attacks— any of it. In fact, she showed more empathy than I’d experienced in a long time. And she offered something other than just well wishes.

I left with a diagnosis of ADHD and an anxiety disorder, but more importantly, I left with help. She started me on new medication to try and help alleviate some of the symptoms. It was explained how my brain chemistry works differently and taking medication for mental health was no different than taking it for high blood pressure or anything else. It relieved some of my fears, and from then on out, I felt completely comfortable going to see Dr. Rolling.

The medication did not completely cure my storms, but it took the edge off. As I would find out, sometimes life has a way of getting you down regardless. In 2010, at age three, Stella was kicked out of her Christian-run preschool because of her increasing behavior issues (she’d bit another child). She still wasn’t potty-trained, in spite of our best efforts. Her language skills were mostly echolalia, repeating words and phrases she’d picked up from us or her favorite tv shows. We had her evaluated by a pediatric neurologist, who came back with a diagnosis of autism. At the same time, she was also evaluated and enrolled in the local Title 1 preschool, where they were better equipped to teach kids who had differences like Stella. I left my job at the bank to work from home for my mother’s online-based business so I could focus on her.

The reaction from the church was mixed. Some people were supportive. Others thought she needed it prayed out of her. There were some who insisted she needed it spanked out of her. All the while, I was fed fear-mongering information from various popular sources at the time, and found myself falling into a deep pit of “what-ifs”, and wondering if I was somehow failing as a mother. This did little to aid my nearly non-existent sense of self-worth as a Christian.

In 2012, life began to shift yet again. I gave birth to our second child, Parker, in January. During my pregnancy that prior year, I had joined an online group of women who were all due to give birth at the same time, and formed some life-long friendships as a result. These women weren’t Pentecostal, but they were amazing, just as they were. None of them wore skirts, or had uncut hair. They wore makeup and jewelry, and even used four-letter words (gasp!). But I’d finally found people I could be honest with and talk about my storms to. I was supposed to witness to these women— be an example of the church and Jesus to them, but instead, I found that I loved them just as they were. I was taught that people like them were of the devil, and that they were bound for hell. But all I felt was unconditional love— the kind Jesus showed.

It’s ironic that the church discourages people from becoming “close” with people who aren’t in the church, when Jesus himself chose to hang out with publicans and “sinners”. He went to those that society deemed as less desirable in some shape or form. He fed them, spoke with them, healed them. It’s my understanding that healing can be invisible. It’s not always the healing of a physical wound— sometimes it’s the building of a bridge across an ugly, ancient rift. Or an anchorless ship finding a safe harbor at last. Or… perhaps a lonely soul finding kindred spirits.

From these ladies, I gradually learned lessons of kindness, acceptance, and grace over the many years to come.

In 2013, I was evaluated and received my own autism diagnosis at last. The church people began to subtly pull away from me when I let the news be known. I remember the uncomfortable aversion of eyes. Even the pastor’s wife gave just about no response when I excitedly texted her, because I finally had answers I’d been searching all my life for. It was disheartening. After all, I wasn’t broken, just different! Why did I suddenly feel like a leper among the people I’d known for years?

My 2012 Mommies, however, held me up and embraced me wholeheartedly. It was this love that held me as life at home and church slowly descended into a new phase of turmoil… that would ultimately lead to my exit from the church and the start of a new journey.

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Exploring Emotions: Lost and Found

As the humid summer days grow longer, tall sunflower stalks follow the path of the dawning sun until shadows appear under the moonlit sky. Then, eager for a new day with endless possibilities, the yellow giants twirl around in anticipation of the sun’s kisses in the morning. While many cling to the flower’s intense focus on the hope of a new dawn, I cringe at their faces, remembering Mrs. Julie and longing for the days of journals and daily phone calls. My heart yearns to find solace sitting next to her, eating chunky monkey ice cream on the days that my high school and college years seemed to turn upside down.  It is the smell of Ragu alfredo sauce, a meal that her and I both loved, while our families despised it. It is the yellow highlighter, blue pen, and colored ribbons in her Bible. It is when the choir sings, “Through the Garden.” But, when the congregation yells, “Praise God!” in song, I see her husband’s face and hear his voice. I crawl within myself, terrified of more hours of yelling and screaming, manipulation and berating. It is a foul smell in the car, an extremely heavy-set man passing out tracts. It is the man holding Scripture signs or someone talking through a megaphone. It is a preacher on Sunday morning talking about a person being “carnal” or needing to repent. But I never knew I suffered a loss.

According to the authors of Managing Traumatic Stress Through Art (pg. 74), these feelings of loss are “a natural reaction to actual or imagined losses that vary according to the type and impact of the trauma. It is common to experience a loss of one or more of the following as a result of the trauma:

    • A sense of safety and security
    • Meaning and purpose in life
    • Physical health or body integrity
    • The ability to relate effectively with others
    • Self-esteem or identity
    • Someone or something you love”

In my life, there was no viewing or physical casket. No funeral or solemn prayer. There was no placement of an actual body or a covering of earth with beautiful flowers in honor of their passing. Rather, I was left in a confused state with only the overwhelming emotions and harrowing memories left behind. I lost not only my best-friend and mentor, but I lost my childhood innocence and wonder, and I no longer knew the person I had become. It turns out that recognizing and accepting these losses are the first steps in allowing the actual grieving process to begin, in order to allow the pains to lesson over time, even if they never truly go away. It is vital to look deep within and ask what losses you have endured from the trauma. What has changed, shifted, or shattered into a million pieces? Recognizing these feelings and having compassion on yourself in a way that allows space to grieve and seek support as needed will begin the path to acceptance and healing.

This exercise involves writing a letter or poem to someone who has experienced trauma(s) similar to your own. For those not familiar, I was under a husband-wife couple that was like a miniature cult, brainwashing and isolation included. The wife, Mrs. Julie, was a dear friend, but her husband, Brother Thomas, was abusive mentally, emotionally, sexually, and spiritually, but only physically abusive towards his family. Because I could not wrap my mind around another situation similar enough to my own experiences at the time, I wrote my letter as if to another girl under those mentors, since they took so many teenagers under their wings. Mrs. Julie especially took in young teen girls to help mentor and encourage them. Here is my letter as if to one of those girls. It has given me a sense of not being alone anymore, and even a shift in perspective to potentially helping others. I can see another girl and have compassion on her, rather than my own tendency to say, “I should have known. I should have seen it. Why did I not just get out?” It has helped to have compassion on myself and it was key to starting inner child work.

Dear Sister,

I pray this letter finds you well, or so I hope. Prayer isn’t really a thing for me these days. How about you?

They wanted us to meet up with their standard of living and godliness, but it was a standard that could never be attained. She loved us dearly, but she was likely too entrenched in survival mode and self-presentation to see the damage it caused: that intense feeling of failure, mounted with sheer guilt and shame. I know the mask and I know the pain. I feel that hurt. But you’re not alone. You weren’t alone then and you’re not alone now.

He couldn’t have cared less with the facade he put on, somehow greater than his weight [He was easily 400lbs or more and used it for intimidation]. Remember Rachel? Remember Amanda? Rachel had the guts to stand and Mrs. Julie protected Amanda from him. I don’t know what all you went through, but I know the loss of innocence. I know the fears and panic from everyday things that others do not understand.

I still sit through church services nervous and terrified. I never know what the man [preacher] is going to say or when the skeletons will show. Every message is a reminder of my failure. But it’s not a failure. You’re not a failure. You are strong for continuing on. You are strong for getting out when you did, no matter how long that took.

The crazy is over and now it’s picking up the pieces and finding joy in life again somehow. It’s finding purpose again outside the crazy. It’s not as simple as brushing your shoulders off, but it’s a day by day, moment by moment process.

“God’s crazy about you”…. Remember? She may have said it, but it hasn’t changed. I don’t understand how God works anymore, but somewhere the Bible says that God is love, and He loves you with an everlasting love.

The journey ahead is long, but it’s not your fault. You’re beautiful. You’re amazing because you are fearfully and wonderfully made. In college, I thought it would be better if a car swerved and hit me because I would no longer be the reason they were hurting, but someone shared that verse with me and told me that the rest of my life that didn’t happen would be the wonder of God’s work on me. Marvelous are thy works. That’s you.

It feels like my marriage is messed up many days because of what happened, but you know what? A real man isn’t like Thomas. He cares and he stays. He loves and encourages. In marriage, we support each other through the good and bad times.

I don’t have the answers for Bible reading, church, prayer, soul-winning, communication or authority. Submission is all jacked up. But some day, we can be stronger for it somehow. Someday, we can help someone else because of what we’ve been through and cannot change.

God will judge him someday if no one gets to him first. And even if they do, God will still judge him someday. Maybe then he will know where to stick that stupid pig, chicken and rooster.

You’ll find friends again. You’ll learn to trust again as you learn about healthy boundaries (highly recommend “Boundaries” by Henry Cloud 🙂 ).

You’re loved. And you’re not alone. Hang in there. You’re stronger than you feel.

Chloe

*For more art therapy ideas from Managing Traumatic Stress through Art, check out the full list of exercises from the blog post: “Managing Traumatic Stress Through Art.

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