I was raised in a cult.
I. was. raised. in. a. cult.
It’s still sometimes difficult for me to say out loud. Years of therapy and I’m still baffled at the incredulity of my upbringing. I grew up in a cult where I experienced just about every form of abuse and was taught that it was all my fault. By the time I turned 20, I could see that the people around me were never going to change until someone forced them to. Someone had to remove the grenade pin and I knew my oldest sibling was too amiable to hurt anyone. Also at the time, I was secretly dating a girl and I definitely had nothing to gain and everything to lose if my parents and the church found out. Leaving seemed like the most logical choice if my family was ever going to wake up and if I wanted to be with my girlfriend. It all happened so fast. One day a family friend apparently tipped off my mom that I was dating girls. I had to get out and get out NOW.
I realize that all the above section is a rushed condensation of my pre-freedom life situation. I mean, it IS. It’s fine. You’ll be fine. I just needed to share all of that to maybe portray a clearer picture of why I did what I did.
(This blog is my therapeutic exercise. This is where I pick apart memories and piece them back together into something I can understand. BTW thanks for reading my weird ramblings. I appreciate it and hope they’re helpful to you in some way.)
The night I escaped was both freeing and heart-wrenching. I left my four younger siblings without saying goodbye. I drove away without hugging them one last time. It was necessary that nobody knew my plan, because I couldn’t trust some siblings to not tell or the babies to innocently give me up. I just hoped they would one day understand and forgive me. I hoped I wasn’t signing their death sentence.
Over the weeks following my DIY emancipation, I attempted to celebrate my newfound freedom. Everything was fine for a couple weeks, but then the noise went away and all I could think about was how I’d betrayed my sweet, innocent younger siblings. I knew it was imperative that one of us leave. I knew how important it was that someone begin dismantling our family’s framework of rules and control-through-fear-and-shame. I knew all of that. I just didn’t understand how much it would hurt. I began to pour my heartbreak, pain, and resentment that any of this even had to happen, into poetry. Last week I rediscovered a folder full of poems from that time. This is the first:
It’s Raining Again
It’s raining again
I let the quiet last too long
It started with a little trickle
Deep inside
I needed noise to make it go away
An irate customer
A deadline
But the quiet stayed
A memory
A little face…
The rain becomes heavier
Tiny hands reaching up
Muffled thunder makes it’s way into my chest
Innocent eyes
Bolts of lightening stab my heart
The rain pours down
In the silence
Creating Peace From the Pieces 