Category: unhealthy churches | Page 13

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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Wingless: The Child Bride

Those first few years in the church felt like a lifetime all in their own. All the conventions, camps, fundraisers… they kept me extraordinarily occupied. At times it felt like a full-time job. Throw in caring for my three younger siblings, and I was a very busy girl!

One thing to know about churches like Church A, is that young marriage is extremely common. With strict purity culture, young people are often rushing to the altar. One funny anecdote I’ve heard is that Pentecostal girls often go to bible college to get their degree in “holy matrimony.”

I completely admit: I was boy-crazy! Between the ages of 15-17 I had four- FOUR boyfriends! (Not at the same time, mind you.) Not that we went on dates. These were “church” boyfriends. Ones that I would see at services and youth events, and chat on the phone with. Perhaps hold their hand. I think I kissed one of them. As far as I would let my teenage hormones take me. (Because, rules.)

In this church culture, if you were still single when you were past college, you were pretty much a spinster. So I was determined that I was going to find my soulmate! I did what any girl did- I sought God like a crystal ball to determine my future path. Was I going to be a pastor’s wife? An evangelist? Part of an highly sought-after music ministry duo? I wanted some sort of mystical prophesy that would show me the face of the man I was to marry. I was a die-hard romantic who ate up (clean, church-approved) Christian romance novels like they were KitKats (because KitKats are the best candy bars, hands-down, no argument. Anyway, moving along…).

Since I had yet to get an engagement ring by the time I was 17, I decided to plan on college. I wanted to attend the local bible college and get a degree in music. The college itself was not accredited (as many bible colleges in the organization weren’t, unfortunately), but you could legitimize your degree by also attending classes through another local religious college at some point.

A bit awful to say, but attending the bible college would give me the clout I needed to advance in the music ministry. In this organization, unless you had the right connections (and honestly, the right look), you could have all the musical talent in the world, but it would be hard to reach people beyond your local church. I’d taught myself to play the piano and wrote my own songs. I felt like I had a calling to minister to people through this music… but I had to play the game, just like anyone else.

I was in a period of time in late 2003, at 17, that I’d finally decided to take a break from the boys and focus on my future. Focus on God. I’d broken up with a boy several months prior because I just didn’t feel like he was “the one” for me (which at that age, sounds silly to even think about). But then one night I went to a monthly youth rally at a small, local church that was part of our organization… and it changed my life forever.

A lot of people will say that love at first sight is a myth. Perhaps, for most people, it just doesn’t happen. But that’s not the case for me and Paul.
Time stopped when I saw him. A few inches taller than me, dishwater-blond hair, and the most gorgeous ocean eyes I’d ever seen. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. And the moment our gazes linked… it’s like there was an invisible magnet drawing us together. And I knew. I just… knew.

I was staring at my future.

We only had a minute after service to say a few words to each other before I was whisked away (I’d ridden with my pastor), but in the following week we both desperately tracked each other down until we got each other’s email address through a mutual friend.

I still have a binder with all our emails and love letters. The first one was an awkward, “Are you the girl I met at the rally?” They quickly escalated from there, diving into emails discussing our lives, and trading views on theology. Paul was (is) highly intelligent, funny, and caring. And musically-inclined! (He played bass at his church). We messaged multiple times a day. He was a freshman in college, and would duck into the computer lab to chat or send me a long email.

A week after a marathon of emailing, he asked me on a date. My first date. Of course, it was a resounding YES! Days later, he was stepping onto our front porch (with my one-year-old baby sister banging on the storm door, having just shed her clothes and diaper for the millionth time that day. She’ll never live that one down.)

The rest is history. One date led to barely a day going by without him making the 35 minute drive to come see me in his Buick with the busted front right fender. Even when I was crazy sick with the flu, he came to let me cuddle up in the crook of his arm, all wrapped up in a quilt, not caring if I got him sick.

Six months flew by, and on May 1st, 2004, when I was only 18, he got down on one knee by a windy lake and asked me to marry him. I was so excited, I nearly pushed him into the lake. But I said yes!

I called my dad to tell him the news. He laughed. His words were. “I think you’ll be a child bride, but okay!”

Our wedding day was set for six months after that. Honestly, it was set so soon because we didn’t want to wait for purity reasons… and I wanted to get out of my house.

Our pastor was encouraging of short engagements. We went through premarital counseling and the whole nine yards. But I’d be lying if I said part of my motivation wasn’t to be rescued by my prince charming like a damsel in distress. I wanted to finally be respected as an adult and to get out from underneath my stepdad’s thumb.

Perhaps my motivation was greater than most. I had basically been a second, teenaged mother to my toddler siblings their whole lives and it forced me to grow up before I was ready. And of course, the church didn’t take this into account. They didn’t care that I was trying to juggle school, children, and now a relationship. Church first, no matter what. Even if you’re burnt out. You don’t take breaks.

And so we got married on a mild, November morning at Paul’s church in another nearby town. After the wedding, we lived in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment in my hometown because it was near his work, but started going to his church (Church B) because the congregation was smaller and we were “needed more”. We used our musical talents there. Paul occasionally preached (though his style was more like teaching compared to the typical stompin’ and spittin’ Pentecostal style, as he is more reserved). I helped clean the church. We taught Bible studies and did outreach. Anything and everything one could think of in a small congregation.

Two years later, I was pregnant with our first child. Even then, there was no slowing down. I’d been working at a fast food place (Paul didn’t make much at the factory, and honestly, we barely had two nickels to rub together.) while dedicating the rest of our lives to the church. Three services a week. Prayer service. Youth services. Music practice. It was absolute insanity. The only slowing down I got was when I ended up with high blood pressure and got put on hospitalized bedrest. Our daughter, Stella, ended up being born a few weeks early via C-section because things got dangerous. As soon as I was recovered, she was held by someone else in the congregation so I could go right back to my duties.

All the while, we were barely making ends meet, even with the new, better job at the bank I managed to get not long after Stella was born. Gas alone was $80+ a week because of how much we were driving back and forth between our home town and the church (25 minutes each way). At that time (during the recession), and when you’re young and broke, it was an exorbitant amount of money. Not to mention the miles on our old, used vehicles that were constantly breaking down. Often times, we were left with $70 or less to feed the three of us after paying the huge chunk of tithe and offering money, and then our bills (because tithes came first).

Postpartum depression hit me hard after Stella came. Motherhood was not the bliss I thought it would be. Reflux aside, Stella wasn’t a difficult newborn by any means. But my hormones were out of whack. I was so tired from working all the time, and going to church all the time, and worrying about money all the time. And there seemed to be no mercy anywhere, because everyone was also doing everything. No matter how hard I prayed, things stayed miserable.

Eventually, I ran completely out of steam and hit the proverbial wall. This storm just had no end in sight. Something had to give. So I did something that I was sure would send me straight to hell: I secretly stopped paying tithes.

It immediately gave us a bit of a reprieve, but with the new expense of having a child, not much. We were still dirt poor and worn to the bone. I still had to ask my parents for money constantly. Because we had gone straight from living with our parents to being married, we didn’t have much experience with how to handle hardships either, much less during a recession. It was a strain on our marriage and our mental health (mine, in particular). Throw in my guilt of now being a “robber of God,” my anxiety was through the roof.

Finally, my husband put his foot down and declared that we were going to switch churches from Church B back to my home church, Church A, because Church A was in the town where we lived, and would therefore save us money we desperately needed. I was terrified of change in routine and social structure, and cried over the proposal, though I knew it was the correct decision.

When switching churches within this particular organization, you have to get the blessing of your current pastor. Then that pastor connects with the new one to give the green light. It’s more like a transaction of funds, rather than a change in attendance. “Stealing flock” is frowned upon, even in cases of abuse. It doesn’t matter if we’re talking about grown adults, they are still at the whim of what leadership dictates.

We sat down with the pastor of Church B. Paul explained to him that we were going to start going to Church A and laid out why. Very logical, and to the point. We were going hungry. Our bills weren’t getting paid. We couldn’t afford the gas money anymore. Church B pastor asked details of our finances. He then asked if we were paying our tithes. Though I felt the blood drain from my face as I did so… I lied and said “yes.” (So now, not only was I a robber, but a liar too. Check two for spiritual failure!)

The pastor looked at us and told us, “Well, if it’s just for financial reasons that you’re leaving, I think you need to stay here and just trust God to provide.”

Paul (God bless him) gently reiterated that we were, in fact, leaving. With or without his blessing. Thankfully, the pastor did let us leave on the good terms that we needed for the transition. We weren’t allowed, however, to attend a last service to say goodbye to everyone, as the pastor didn’t want drama/upset. That was painful. But we were free to move onto the next phase of our lives.

But it would be years before freedom truly came.

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Wingless: Go Big Or Go Home

TW: I do discuss my experience with receiving the Holy Ghost and dress standards in the way that is taught in apostolic Pentecostal churches, as well as my baptism. It is primarily told from the perspective I had at the time.

I have to put another disclaimer before I continue: I was in this church organization for nearly two decades, but portions of my memory are a big blur. There are large blocks of time I have forgotten entirely. Part of this is due to a series of medical events later on, and partly due to complex trauma. I will endeavor to piece together what I do remember, as it’s the crucial foundation that has shaped who I am today. Everything I write, however, is my truth. My experience. And no one can take that away from me. With that being said, lets delve into the past— twenty years, to be precise…

Walking into the church for the first time was like walking into a whole new world. It was a smallish congregation, at least compared to the mega non-denominational churches with celebrity pastors I’d attended before. Everyone was so friendly and welcoming. I was shy, so I clung to my friend. We’ll call her “Raylene.” (I’m not going to use real names at any point in my posts, by the way.) Many people came up to me and shook my hand. It was so different from what I’d experienced before. People cared about little old me? And there were young people!

As someone who loved singing, the vibrant music swept me away. The congregation singing at the top of their lungs, lifting their hands, oozing with emotion. Still hurting deeply, it touched something within me. And the preaching was very emotive, not holding back.

Still, I kept my guard up in those early days. I didn’t want to be treated like a lost person in need of Jesus. I already had Jesus! I’d accepted Him as my Lord and Savior, I’d even been baptized (in a high school pool), and I loved the Bible.

As time went on, however, I was starkly aware of my differences. I wore pants and jewelry, and I love to play with makeup (as any average teenage girl does). These were my new friends, but I still wasn’t quite “in” their world. Was I wrong? As kind as they were, I was an outsider. Think of how pleased they would be if I followed these new rules! Perhaps I would be more pleasing to Jesus too?

I agreed to the Bible studies. They taught me the “plan of salvation” according to Acts 2:38. No longer was accepting Jesus as your savior good enough. No, there was now a multi-step process to go through. The way it was presented sounded logical enough, though the thought of speaking in tongues was unnerving. And the studies on hair, clothing, and other holiness “standards” followed soon after, to explain why they all looked the way they did. Everything had a Bible verse to back it up in some shape or fashion. Surely that meant it was correct? I was inexperienced in exegesis and deeper, independent study, so I took their word on it.

By the time January of the following year rolled around, I’d already started wearing skirts. My mom was all too pleased to take me out shopping for them, as we’d been on the heels of our time in a different fundamentalist church that had also taught stricter modesty in dress (which I had actually shied away from before, ironically). She’d gone back to wearing pants already, but was 100% supportive of my own decisions to dress “modestly.”

On a cold, January Sunday, I decided I needed to be baptized. Again. I was convinced, by then, that I wasn’t saved enough. Of course, I wanted to avoid that hellfire and brimstone that had already been instilled in me since childhood. I needed to be right, and follow the rules. Rules were comforting; rules helped me breathe.

I asked my mom if I could get baptized. She looked at me funny and said, “Alright. But you do know you’re already saved, right?” A church friend was with me at the time and we were about to head out the door. I froze, blood draining from my face. What if I told the truth- that I wasn’t saved, because I wasn’t baptized “correctly”? That the man dunking me in the water hadn’t uttered the right formula?

And so, I panicked. And… I lied. “I know.”

With that, I was released to rush from the house off to evening church service, where I donned a blue robe and entered the chilly baptismal water to have the right words said over me like some magic spell that would wash my sins away.

It was exactly a week later that I was praying fervently (for the millionth time) to receive the Holy Ghost. Now, to do this, it wasn’t simply reciting a prayer. You didn’t just talk to God, assuming He would hear and everything would be alright. No, my friend. You had to seek. Cry, wail, snot. Hands lifted to the ceiling, with the cacophony of praying people around you. My eyes were shut, I was hyper-focused.

“Please, God! Don’t let me die and go to hell!”

In my mind, I was no longer in the room, but standing at the base of a great, white, stone wall, with the heavens in the sky above, pleading with God. I poured out every single bit of energy I had into those moments. I was in a strange, dreamlike trance. People around me were laying hands on me, speaking things into my ear. The atmosphere was so intense, and I was so desperate, that I began to shake, my jaw shook, and I mumbled words. I was told that this was it- this was the Holy Ghost. I had been an empty, worthless sinner before, but now, after much travailing, I’d finally received God and I could start my journey. This was the way it was supposed to be…

…Right?

Things were a whirlwind after that. I flipped from normal(ish) teenager to being thrown into church life just about 24/7. Church service three times a week, with practices and other events in between. My church social life was so busy that I barely had time for my old, faithful friends, or even my family anymore (beyond caring for my younger siblings). My schoolwork started slipping. I joined the choir, the puppet team, sign language drama team—the works!

I still remember the finality of taking off my necklace for the last time in the church bathroom. It was go big or go home time. I got rid of “bad” music, cut up my jewelry so I wouldn’t be tempted to wear it anymore (kept the jewel part in a box as a “keepsake”). My hair was going to grow as long as it could and I was going to be a bare-faced angel from there on out. No necklines more than three fingers width below the collarbone, no one would ever witness my knees again. I was covered… and I was proud.

I’ll never forget one day, my mom came down the stairs, all prettied up for a date with my stepdad. I told her she had “eighty pounds of makeup on her face”. She got upset and went back upstairs to take it off. My stepdad scolded me for saying that (rightly so). I made a similar remark when a church friend got Glamour Shots taken and wore light makeup for the shoot. She looked beautiful, but I just had to zero in on that makeup. I became eagle-eyed for it. The smallest bit of mascara made someone a Jezebel.

Strict adherence to the rules made the pastor happy, and meant that I was “on fire” for God. In my mind, this was the right way. If I had any tempting thoughts about skirting the rules, I would be on my knees in the altar, repenting. I was determined to serve the LORD, and make it in that rapture!

But over time, that initial fire began to dim… and my storms returned. I was losing energy. Things were still not perfect at home. My stepmom criticized my new way of dressing. My stepdad got angry if I came home too late after an evening service. I had days were all I wanted to do was sleep and disappear into my books. Television was discouraged, so I tried to stick to listening to preaching tapes and reading theology books borrowed from the church library. I fed myself as much as possible with church doctrine. This dreadful emptiness had to be filled somehow. Surely it was my own fault- I wasn’t prayed up enough, doing enough, seeking enough?

In the church (we’ll call it Church A), at the time, mental health was not really talked about as such. Everything was mostly a spiritual problem. You’re burnt out on going to church 4-5 times a week? You’re just not prayed up enough. You need to be even more dedicated. You’re feeling sad? It’s a spirit. You need to be in the altar, seeking deliverance! Worry was seen as a sin (which didn’t help my anxiety).

So when my storms came on, fast and furious, I tried to hide it behind a smile and a joke, and grieve the sunshine in private. If pastor found out you were struggling, you might be pulled off platform for a while. They didn’t want anyone with a bad spirit on them “hindering the worship,” as if they might somehow send out negativity like dark waves through the sound system. If you didn’t pray hard thirty minutes before service, it was highly frowned upon.

Looking back on it now, it seems ludicrous. But the fear was real. For me, the fear of slipping up, of breaking a rule, had me suffocated. Because not only did it mean not pleasing people, it meant not pleasing God himself. And that meant hell.

Take all of this into consideration, and put it on the shoulders of a teenager, who’s already dealing with normal teenage emotions and changes. Anyone would struggle! And so many of the young people around me did. The rumor mills were constantly turning. Even those that were exalted as near-perfect wrestled in private, as I later found out. Put that kind of pressure on a developing mind, the results can be disastrous.

When you push rules, and not grace, cracks form. And those cracks can and will be filled by whatever seems promising at the time. Add in preexisting mental health and neuro-developmental differences, such as mine, it’s a perfect storm.

And little did I know just how big those storms would get.

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Wingless: A Child Of Sun And Storms

I don’t remember a time when I was non-compliant. Growing up, I remember only one spanking, from my Papa, and I didn’t even know what it was for. All my mom had to do was look at me sternly, and I would send myself to my room, crying. I was a people-pleaser, even as a small child. If they were happy, I was happy.

A child of divorced and remarried parents living in the midwestern United States, I was a typical statistic. Still, I was mostly carefree, if not a bit odd when I was young. I dressed up in “princess dresses” whenever I got the chance. I spun around in the field and acted out my favorite Disney princess scenes alone during school recess. My obsession with storms and tornadoes predated Twister. My grades were always impeccable because, again, people-pleaser. I followed rules. Rules made the world run smoothly, and told me what to expect.

I was carefree until I turned nine, at which time my Nana recalls a remarkable change in my personality. I became withdrawn, spending more and more time in my room, escaping into books and writing. I cried in private and slept a lot. Some days I was sunshine, others I was a monsoon. Still, I clung to those rules. I wanted to make other people happy, even if I wasn’t. Inheriting my parents’ crazy sense of humor, this was how I first learned to mask.

Both of my stepparents were emotionally-abusive at times for different reasons, though I didn’t recognize it as such at the time. My stepdad would fly off the rails at me if I stayed up too late reading, or didn’t do a chore. My stepmother bullied me about my creeping weight gain (it later turned out I had an endocrine disorder). All I knew is that I had to try harder. Watch the clock. Eat less at dinner. They weren’t happy with me, and it scared me, because it meant I was failing.

But even that didn’t account for the change—why I so abruptly transformed. To this day, I still don’t know. But it was a catalyst that opened up wounds that were susceptible to the poison that would later seep in.

I lived in a good, Christian home. We went to church (mostly non-denominational, but at one point, a fundamentalist church very similar to the IFB, which was a nightmare for me. I’ll get into that another time.). But I still had those suns and storms. When unexpected things happened, I was scared. If I upset my stepdad again, I’d cry and shake under the covers. (My older siblings were not people-pleasers like me and eventually went to live with our father. I was too attached to my mom to leave her side.) When I felt I’d pleased my parents, I was on top of the world, and all was right. Things were safe and secure.

As I got older, my mental state only got worse, but it also sparked creativity. I had a small, but encouraging group of friends who would read my stories and listen to my “concerts”. I had good things going for me as well, not just the bad. At one point, I was in The Saint Louis Children’s Choir. In spite of my problems, the future was anything but bleak.

But then mom’s depression got really bad, especially after giving birth to my younger brother, followed closely by my two younger sisters. We stopped going to church, which at the height of the Left Behind/rapture/satanic-panic craze, scared the tar out of me. “Growing cold” in your faith meant hellfire and demonic attacks. As far as I was concerned, my foundation was shaken. I was home-schooled from eighth grade on, so no church also meant I was more socially isolated, which worsened my own depression and anxiety.

It was a nightmare scenario for a young, mentally-ill (and, at the time, undiagnosed autistic) girl.

One of my neighborhood friends had recently joined a strange church up the road and had started wearing skirts, stopped wearing makeup, jewelry, and didn’t cut her hair anymore. She invited me to church, but I blew her off at first because it was too odd, even for me.

One weekend in October of 2000, when I was only 14, however, my world fell apart. I was at my dad’s house (like I was every other weekend). It was my dad and stepmom’s anniversary and they got into an awful screaming match. My dad left the house. My stepmom cried. She never cried. Despite our problems, it tore me up to see her sitting on the floor, sobbing. So, I stepped out of my compliant shell for the first time and left a scathing voicemail on my dad’s phone, scolding him for his behavior. My stepmom drove me home because I was too scared to stay after I realized what I’d done. I refused to talk to my dad for days, and that was the last time I regularly went to his house.

I had a new void that I desperately needed to have filled. So I called up my friend and begged her to take me to church with her. Little did I realize how vulnerable I really was. How easy it would be for a hunger to be filled with ash and years of decay that would slowly eat away at every bit of light I had left. Often, I wish I had a time machine. But only hindsight is 20/20, so thus my story brings me to a fateful door.

The door of a cult.

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Douglas Stauffer’s Private Message to Matthew Olds (December 2018)

The day after my third Facebook post that fall, “What Really Happened- Part Two,” Douglas Stauffer sent the following private message to Matthew Olds through Facebook, claiming that he was “saddened” when he had heard that we had left! According to Stauffer, his reasoning for the message was “since it seems that you [Matt] may not be privy to all this” and so that “you [Matt] can know how to better help Chrystal [me].” He proceeded to copy and paste my Facebook posts from October 2018 and November 2018, supposing incorrectly that Matt was not aware, just as he claimed back in June 2018. Even today, Matt and I both feel that Stauffer’s message (below) is telling of the facade that we believe he presented on regular basis.

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

Douglas Stauffer (December 7, 2018 4 at 9:05am):

“12/7/18 THU 10:26 PM

Matt: I received this last night and simply filed it away but after much prayer I want to forward it to you since it seems that you may not be privy to all this. This is the second post that I have received and plan on doing nothing about either one other than this time passing along a copy of both to you—not even passing a copy to the pastor. I am certainly not going to react to it because reacting was my mistake in the past and I try to learn from lessons taught. When I came back from travels, I heard ya’ll had left the church—I was saddened.

This post is indicative of what started the problem back in June; using Facebook to publicly air one’s grievances that could be perceived as attacking the pastor or the church, rather than going to the individual (highly unlikely at this juncture). I think you are a good man and want to do what is right and best for all (especially Chrystal and your children). Anyway, I do pray for you guys and wish nothing but the best and sure miss the smiles from your children that could brighten anyone’s day.

Do not feel compelled in anyway to respond. This message is simply informational and not meant to fix a problem that may remain broken and irreparable. I wish the latter not to be the case but do realize that Chrystal feels wronged, hurt and betrayed.
Additionally, this message is not sent to you to cause division in your family but so that you can know how to better help Chrystal. It is not even intended so that you can have her take down the post—that is irrelevant. If what she is doing is right than I am fully supportive. If it is not, I will simply leave that in God’s hands since I could have done better in handling her posts back in June.
Because of Calvary,

Doug

12/6/18
Wanna know why people don’t speak up about various forms of harassment? Still wonder why there’s a MeToo Movement? Let me show you…..

This was supposed to be a place of balance and a place of healing. I opened up the scars and the wounds in hopes of moving forward, and despite the many hours of tears, counsel and advice over the course of FIVE YEARS, I heard the words… I don’t know how to talk with you.
I sent an email about the harassment that occurred in June, but what happened? A message on forgiveness that night. He later said he was preaching to himself too. I’ve since learned the Bible says to recieve not an accusation against an elder except by two or three witnesses. Now I know why.
My husband was called downstairs into a meeting where the man told my husband that he thought this mess had fallen into my husband’s lap for him to help me with my past trauma. It was believed to all be transferance but I have the proof that tells otherwise. He then said that an email like this can destroy a man’s ministry and attempted to get my husband to agree to deleting it from his email as well. He said to my husband, “Let’s start ripping it up now” and proceeded to attempt to physically rip up the document. When that did not work-awkwardly, I might add- he sent my husband to the office to shred it. It was presented as the ONLY copy remaining, just a day after giving a copy to the man who harassed my family saying, “Brother Olds doesn’t know you have this.”

Two months later, the man who harassed my family to begin with approached us because he knew about the email (had a physical copy) and couldn’t rectify that I went over to say “Hello” And apologize for avoiding him, and wanted to meet because he was afraid of a #MeToo movement. He threatened (but said it was NOT a threat) that if the meeting didn’t go a certain way, he would step down, leave the church, and my accusations of harassment would go up before the church. When my husband asked the man we sent the email to about the harassment to be in the meeting, he said we were trying to destroy our church because I had asked a friend for advice in June. He also tried to control the number of witnesses and tell my husband who he could and could not ask for as witnesses. Oh yes, and he said that shredding the email wasn’t meant too be deceitful.
Why speak up? Because these types of situations happen all of the time and people are told, “This could destroy his ministry.” Well, what about everyone else that is destroyed IN his scope of ministry? #BreaktheSilence

10/1/18 We’ve made it a year again despite the struggles of three young children, lip ties and sickness, and nursing in a time where breastfeeding is still developing as a norm! This is NOT against mothers who use formula (we had to for a while with our first because of ties), but breastfeeding is hard work and I’m thankful that we’ve made it a whole year by God’s grace! Joshua* had horrible a horrible lip tie and tongue tie at the beginning which made for a very exhausting, painful and discouraging first month.
After all of the junk we faced while nursing our second (Annabelle*- that’s a post for another day), I’m thankful that we only had one person actually approach us about nursing this time and it wasn’t until Joshua* was about eight months. The man [NOT my old pastor] said that as kneeling for the anthem is giving America the finger, I’m giving my church the finger every time I nurse. He continued to say that it’s an authority issue in our home, that it will be a hindrance to us being sent out as missionaries, and that my husband needs to “man up” and say “Woman, this is what you are going to do [go down to the mother’s room]. And yes, he knew that I struggled with depression and anxiety that was exacerbated by being secluded/isolated away in the mother’s room.

I’m thankful for my husband being the MAN that he is and standing up for me again as his wife and friend. He truly has been my rock through all of it. I don’t know where I’d be without him, but I don’t think we would have made it a year and still going strong.”

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: Yet Another Message from Douglas Stauffer (December 2018)” or click on the link below.

For a list of the complete series, click here.

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