I'm sitting here, fingers poised above the keyboard, understanding that this might not be a piece everyone will read or react to. This is heavy stuff, raw and uncensored, and I'm well aware that sending these thoughts into the digital expanse might feel like shouting into a void. But for me, this is a necessary part of the healing process. Writing offers a way to make sense of the whirlwind inside, and who knows, it might provide some comfort to others who've trodden similar paths. I'm putting this out there, not for validation or sympathy, but with a humble hope that it could help someone else feel a little less isolated.
However, I need to flag a trigger warning upfront: this post delves into my experiences with a cult-like religious community and touches on themes of religious trauma. If you've been impacted by such issues, please tread carefully or feel free to bypass this post if it might be too much. What I'm about to share is a raw and unfiltered snapshot of a chapter from my life, an intimate glance into a past I've grappled with. As you navigate through my story, remember to look after your own well-being. After all, we're all navigating this complex tapestry of life.
Today I stumbled upon the remnants of my past life online, two decades spent in an established religious community on the east coast whose practices have been, and are still being criticized by abused past members and official legal actions.
I am struck by the powerful disconnect between the self that I once was and the person I have become. I stumbled on old photographs, and snippets of videos - all from a time when I was part of a community that felt more like a cult than a place of worship. Scrolling through them feels as if I'm peering into someone else's life - a life that was mine, yet now seems impossibly foreign.
Haunted by memories of a life lived in strict adherence to a doctrine that encouraged uniformity over individuality, I grapple with the shadowy specter of the past that was me.
I, too, was a part of the faith, the structure, the indoctrination.
I, too, was molded by the rigorous routines, the enforced silence, the relentless conversion therapy, and the trauma that, for a long time, seemed just a part of life.
It is challenging if not impossible to articulate this journey to anyone who hasn't been there. How does one explain what it is like to lose oneself in the collective, to submerge your identity in the flowing river of obedience and conformity? It's like describing color to someone who has only ever known black and white. They will never comprehend the vast spectrum of experiences that have painted the canvas of my life, a canvas that once was only shades of grey.
Every morning, I'd wake up with three unwanted but ever-present companions - guilt, shame, and fear. They were as constant and as unyielding as my own heartbeat. Guilt would wrap itself around my mind, a nagging voice whispering that I was never enough, never right, never as they wanted me to be.
Shame was always there, showing me a distorted version of myself, a figure that failed to live up to the community's expectations. As I was growing up, realizing my queer identity, the shame only magnified. My truth was something they would never accept, and this internal conflict draped me in a heavy cloak of disgust.
Fear, the most relentless of the three, was a constant shadow. It was the terror of being found out, the dread of their disapproval, the horror of potential exile. It marked my nights with a bitter lullaby, hinting at nightmares filled with judgment and rejection that still visit me nearly every night.
At 30 now, I look back and see these feelings as echoes of a time when I was struggling to understand who I was amidst the towering expectations of a community I couldn't fit into. I'd always known I was different, even from my earliest memories. The guilt, shame, and fear were born out of that difference, a queer identity I couldn't deny but also couldn't share. Looking back, it was as if I was locked in a battle with myself, a tug of war between who I was and who they wanted me to be.
Each day began with a conversation with myself - a mental rehearsal of how to behave, how to blend in, and how to don the perfect disguise that would shield me from unwanted attention. This daily ritual was a strategy of survival, an attempt to navigate the tightrope walk between my true identity and the façade the community demanded.
I tried to calculate every word, every gesture, every expression - hoping to stay under the radar, to escape notice. It was like playing a role, trying to be someone that I wasn't, to avoid being the person they wouldn't accept.
However, despite my best efforts, the ruse would often fail. A word out of place, a hesitation too long, a reaction too genuine - they served as chinks in my armor, drawing attention and suspicion my way. In those moments, it felt as if I was an easy target, painted with a bullseye for their often relentless judgment and scrutiny. My attempts to camouflage myself often backfired, leaving me exposed and vulnerable in a community that showed little tolerance for those who dared to step out of the 'accepted' norm.
Right now, as I'm writing this, there's this nagging fear in the back of my mind. I'm thousands of miles away, it's been a whole decade since I left that community, yet I still worry. I worry that they might find this post, and read my words. There's this strange dread that I could still somehow be called out, that they might try to 'correct' me, just like they used to.
It's crazy, right? I'm not even there anymore. I've built a new life, far away from them. Yet, this fear, it just doesn't go away. It's like a ghost, a shadow of my past that keeps haunting me.
I'm surprised by how strongly I still feel this. It's a weird mix of scary and sad - scary because of how real it feels, and sad because it's a reminder of the control they had over me. It's a wake-up call, a stark sign of just how deeply those years have marked me. The fear, this ghost from my past, it's still there, lurking around, reminding me of a time I wish I could forget.
This is not to cast aspersions on the members of that community. Many of them are good, kind-hearted people who genuinely believe they are walking the righteous path. But they live within boundaries defined by someone else's interpretation of truth, reality, and honesty. They are unable to see the scarring inflicted on those who do not and cannot conform, who must break themselves to fit into the mold.
Looking back, I see myself then as I'm sure they do now - a failure, someone who abandoned "the call". But with the clarity of hindsight, I realize the call I was forcing myself to answer was not mine. It was a voice that commanded, not guided. It was a voice that demanded conformity, not individuality. It was a voice that deemed obedience as a virtue, and rebellion as a sin.
I carry within me a profound hurt, a searing wound that was inflicted by those 'treatments' and 'light sessions', designed to break my spirit, to grind down any vestige of rebellion, to make me pliant and docile. But that pain has also given me strength. It has given me the courage to face my past, to understand it, and to heal.
Healing...it's a word I could not comprehend a decade ago when I was "asked to leave" the place I had thought of as home. Today, it is my reality. A reality that is more authentic and honest than the one I left behind.
Navigating my past is a complex journey, not least because it wasn't all darkness. It's a bitter irony that some of the most incredible moments of my life are intertwined with that community. The same place that was the source of so much pain also opened doors to experiences that I wouldn't trade for anything.
I had the privilege of seeing the world, traveling to nearly every inhabitable continent. I taught music to children in South African townships and represented our community in South Korea, winning an international competition. I was part of a renowned indoor percussion ensemble, where we competed and medaled for nearly a decade. I performed and studied with an incredibly talented classical theater company in the U.S., and even held the second chair first violin position in a fantastic orchestra. I sang with one of the most recorded choral ensembles, touring with them around the country.
These were magnificent experiences and achievements that shaped me, and they were all possible thanks to the community. Yet, acknowledging this doesn't erase the hurt they caused. It's a complicated reality, where gratitude and resentment, joy and sorrow exist side by side. Life, I've learned, isn't black and white, but an intricate tapestry of contrasting shades, each thread of experience contributing to the whole.
For anyone who might view this as an attack on them, or the establishment itself, please understand this is not a volley of accusations but the raw outpouring of the deeply scarred heart from the voice of a hurt inner child. I don't write these words to instigate a conflict, but to give voice to the mute screams of my past self. The boy I was, locked away in fear and confusion, now has the strength to share his story, to bare his wounds, to honor his healing journey.
The path I walk today is mine and mine alone. It's a path marked with scars, but also resilience and hope. I may have been seen as a failure by the community I once called home, but today, I see myself for what I truly am - a survivor. And with each step I take on this path, I move further away from the person I was expected to be and closer to the person I am meant to be.
