The Nightmares are Back

I'm starting to have a lot of nightmares again. Most of them are about my family. They started again when I went to see my brothers. While it was a wonderful visit, just being with them and reliving memories with them (we tried to mainly only remember happy memories) seemed to bring up all the ugliness in my subconscious.

This morning I had another nightmare. I accidentally fell asleep when I got back home from dropping my partner off at work. My dream was so real that I did not even realize that I was sleeping until my cat woke me up from crying because I had rolled onto her.

In my dream, I was living at home again. I was having a wonderful day at home alone. I had cleaned all the house and I felt really good about it. However, when Mother and Dad came home, it all changed. For some unknown reason, they decided to become suspicious of me. They decided to go through all of my things to find something that I was hiding from them. Mother started going through everything in my room, including all receipts and notes I had lying around. (I'm a messy person and I tend to keep those things for about a week until I get around to throwing them away.)

My dream had mixed with the real happenings in my life, which is probably why it felt so real. In my real life, I went on a splurge at Gap last week. The sweaters were on sale and I bought several nice and professional sweaters and some hoodies. In my dream, Mother found that receipt and was angry that I had not told her about my purchases. Now mind you, I was my real age in the dream: mid 20's. I remember trying to reassure her that the purchases were conservative and something they would approve. She still was not appeased. I was fed up with her, so I went into the living room.

In the living room, I found my Dad, who was also going through my things. My Dad is usually the sensible one of the pair. However, he had found my hidden box (that I actually have). In that box is my current journal as well as a scrapbook I made for my ex. My Dad found the scrapbook and was going through it. At first, he was saying, "Aw this is so sweet." But next he started getting aggressive. He started accusing me of lying to them. He then uttered the statement, "I bet that is where you go every day at 3 o'clock is to meet up with him." I tried to protest, saying that I actually do go to work at 3 o'clock every day and not to see him. However, my Dad was not buying it and set down the rule: I was not allowed to go out of the house again.

I hit my breaking point when my Dad declared that I was not leaving the house again. I started screaming at him, telling him that I actually had broken up with my ex like I had told them before and that he did not even live in the same state anymore. Of course, they were not buying it and insisted even stronger that  I was going to be locked in the house. I snapped with the idea of being locked in the house again against my will. I stormed out of the house. I'm sure they thought I was the same weak girl that I always have been, but this time I had found strength. I decided it was time to escape. 

It turns out, that escaping was extremely dangerous and difficult. After I ran out of the house, I kept running all the way to a factory that was closed for the evening. There, I met a few others that were willing to make the journey to escaping. We had to move quickly as they were already searching for us. We left the factory just as they started searching the factory. It was unclear whether they were just searching the factory just as a routine or someone had notified that we were gone.

We had to gather supplies for our escape or we would most certainly not survive. I had to sneak back into my parent's house to gather supplies. I was successful and had gotten as much food and warm clothing as I could carry. I got out of the house successfully and looked back on the house that held all of my family and everyone I loved for one last time. My heart was saying goodbye to all of it. The happy memories along with the terrible memories. During my silent goodbyes, I rolled onto my cat in my sleep and woke up.

While this was just a dream, I think this was my subconscious talking to me. It was my subconscious wishing my teenage self had taken the long and dangerous journey out. It was my subconscious wishing I had the strength to stand up for myself. It was also my subconscious telling me that I do now finally have the strength that I did not have then. I did take the journey eventually, but I took the long and gradual journey and I lost so much of myself and my life through that journey. I have scars that will always be there because of the journey. I will have pain etched into my heart forever because of what I went through with my parents.

Maybe even one day I will be able to write about and even remember the real events. Until then, I'll be writing about my dreams and the emotional trauma I go through in my dreams. At least my heart finally got its goodbye to my family. While I may still be in "contact" with them, I lost the real friendship with them that was so precious to me. I will probably never be able to go back. I took the dangerous and long journey out and I severed all the relationships. I am better now for escaping, but my heart still bleeds from the goodbyes.

Teach me How to Breakup

I have never broken up with anyone. I have gotten really mad at my boyfriends and threatened to leave them, but I never carried through with it. My last boyfriend cheated on me, left me, and pretty much left my life in shatters, but I still welcomed him back with open arms when he finally contacted me again. While many people might think this is a very small issue, I think that every woman should be ABLE to break up with someone.

Yesterday my significant other and I were fighting. We were fighting because I was tired of his extreme jealousy. I personally think that his jealousy is not healthy or normal. He thinks it is both healthy and normal, as well as necessary. Honestly, I don't know if he is The One. I don't know that I would marry him. I don't know that I would want to have children with him. But despite all of these doubts and fights and tears, I am unable to break up with him. While thinking about all of this yesterday, I realized that my parents never taught me how to break up with someone.

I doubt many mothers purposefully teach their daughters how to break up with someone. However, in the purity culture, breaking up is one of the worst things that could happen in a young woman's life. And the thought of HER being the one doing the breaking up?!? That is absolutely unthinkable. Thinking back, I was never given a model of a healthy ending of a relationship. Divorced women were a dark secret of the church that were tried to be kept silent and on the sidelines. I was not close to many people who had their relationships dissolved.

I remember Irene. Her husband left her for another woman. She was so faithful to the church and refused to divorce him, even though he was living with another woman and beat her whenever he would come back home for a week or so to try to convince her to divorce him. The church portrayed him as being so ungoldy and she as so goldy because she refused to divorce him and she would welcome him back whenever he would come home. The leaders always told her (at least publicly, which is what I heard because as a child I was never privy to the happenings behind closed doors) that she would one day be rewarded by her husband finally coming back to her. As a side note, she did not last too many years longer with the church and I saw her on Facebook the other day and she had finally remarried. I hope all is well with her, but that situation is far from a model of a healthy dissolution of a marriage.

I remember Jessica. She was the daughter of a widowed woman who was in and out of the church. At the time of her courtship, she was not part of the church, but we still saw her frequently and still knew the details of her courtship. She started courting a young man and even had a wedding date set. One day, the courtship was called off by her mother, who forbade her to marry the man. She and her mother pretty much dropped out of all the church circles at that point. She was disgraced. She was as good as divorced. She was damaged goods, even if it was her mother that had forced the relationship to be broken. Once again, that is not a healthy model of a relationship ending.

And then there was the Flannagin family. The Flannagin family was close to our family. However, the Flannagin couple had some serious issues. Mrs. Flannagin would go through times of mental illness and would be found walking down the road miles away from her home only because she was mad at her husband. Even remembering the memories makes me feel dysfunctional because the whole situation never made sense. She was dysfunctional and it tore her children up to have to have that reputation. After they left the church, they finally did split up. Again, the church was forcing them to stay together (as well as not seek professional help).

As a child, I was never taught that breaking up was an option. All the of models of breakups that I had as a child were unhealthy and I was taught that those people were forever inferior. I never dreamed as a girl that I would break up with someone. I always hoped and prayed that I would never have a break up. It never crossed my mind that a breakup might be better. Now I'm contemplating a breakup and realize how impossible it is for me to actually do. I wish there was someone there to help me. I wish someone could walk me through the steps of how to actually do it. I wish my mom had taught me how to break up in a healthy manner.

Abortion -- My First Thoughts

This blog post is an unfinished product. This blog post carries my raw, unrefined emotions. I know that my logic is not fully expressed and I know that my writing is a little rough. I beg of you to bear with me and read through this blog post anyway. Hopefully soon a more thorough blog post about this subject will be forthcoming shortly.

One issue I find myself struggling with recently is abortion. With the upcoming elections as well as all the recent Planned Parenthood videos, it seems that all the conservatives on my Facebook are posting non-stop pro-life posts. One of those people posting pro-life stuff is my own dear sister. Seeing some of the stuff that she posts makes me angry. Angry because I know that we share the same DNA and I know that she is capable of not being closed-minded. I am angry when I see her make such broad generalizations about abortion, such as posting stories of second-trimester abortions and crying for Planned Parenthood to be defunded, while most second-trimester abortions are not even performed by Planned Parenthood.

I agree with my sister on one thing, those stories that are out there about second- and third-trimester abortions are heartbreaking. I would never want a baby to go through the pain some of those babies go through. But I am frustrated because I feel that she blinded by the generalizations. Yes, those abortion stories are horrific, but not every abortion is like that. I can guarantee you that almost any normal, sane woman would not want her fetus to go through what those aborted babies went through. In my logic, those stories are only for the case of discontinuing second- and third-trimester abortions. To me, if you want to stop first-trimester abortions,  you need to make a case for why those are bad as well. Stop trying to just pull on our heart strings about the terrible things that happen in a totally different category and then throw in there "life begins at conception." I am an educated woman who uses logic to reason through my decisions. If I were to be using these pro-life posts to help me reason through my first-trimester abortion, I would find the logic inapplicable to my situation.

Alright, I am done with my rant for now. I hope I have not completely lost all of my readers by this point. One thing that I consider while thinking about the issue of abortion, is how different my young adult life would have been if I felt that abortion was available to me. One such situation is burned clearly in my mind. A couple weeks before I moved out of my parent's house to go to college, I feared that I was pregnant because my period was late. I remember spending several nights up all night crying and praying to a god that I did not believe in and writing in my journal. I was devastated. I knew that if I were pregnant, my father would not pay for me to go to school. I did not have a job at that time and, although I was already 19, I knew that I would be put on strict lock down. I knew that if were pregnant, I would probably not be able to leave the house alone. I would not be allowed to drive. I would have my cell phone taken away from me. Going to college was my way to finally get out of the house. Those sleepless night I was so angry with myself because I thought I had blown my only hope of ever getting free of my parents. I knew that if I were pregnant, my life may as well be over. I knew that if I were pregnant, the man that I was in an abusive on-and-off relationship with would have nothing to do with the baby. I knew that if I were pregnant, that man would probably never try to speak to me again and I also knew that my parents would prefer it that way.
Looking back on those dark nights, I wish I could tell my young self that there was hope. I was not stuck in a terrible, dark situation just because my parents had failed to educate me and I could not leave my abusive relationship. Abortion would have been a means to save my life and to also save the life of the unborn baby. I knew even from my earliest memories that I never wanted a child to have the same childhood that I had. One of my first memories is promising to myself that I would never treat my child the way my Mother treated me. If I had been stuck with a pregnancy in that situation, I would be forced to raise a child in the same environment I was raised in.

I blame my Mother for me being in that awful situation. As I have mentioned many times before, I had very limited sex education. My sex education came too late and only covered the basics of how babies are made. The only other thing that was told to me was that I had to wait until marriage. I wish my Mother had told me about protecting myself. I wish someone had told me that I have a right to want a condom every single time. I wish someone had even told me that it was normal to use a condom. My boyfriend hated them and refused to use them most of the time. I was perpetually terrified about getting an infection or getting pregnant. I thought I had no other choice. I thought that was just my luck. I just wish someone told me that I had options.

Clutter

Something that I am starting to work on but have not come near to understanding, is my messiness. Sometimes I watch the TLC show "Hoarding." I can't watch the show while I'm eating because it makes me nauseous. I will watch it sometimes though when it's a quiet morning with just me at home. This morning is one such morning and watching the show has me thinking about my own struggles with keeping my areas clean as well as wanted to keep things. I'm not the only family member who struggles with messiness. My youngest sister struggles the worst with it.

I know that almost no one reads this blog. I know that this blog will probably never really be read. But I keep on writing because it helps me push myself to face the truth. This blog helps me work through understanding what happened to me. This blog forces me to dig deeper into my past and also the articles people have written to help me. This blog is a safe outlet for my feelings and memories.

My oldest sister went through a phase where her room was a complete mess. Her room was above knee-deep in clothes and papers and other girl clutter. We moved to a smaller house where she and I had to share a room once again. I cried to my Mother because I did not want her messiness in my room. She eventually did become more clean. I'm not really sure what factors went into her cleaning more. I don't know if she truly changed or my parents put enough "pressure" on her for her to start keeping it clean. By "pressure" from my parents, I mean probably a combination of humiliation, spankings, and blackmail. Because that's just the way my parents operate. For the rest of her time at home, my oldest sister keep her space spotless. I'm not sure how she is now. She has mentioned a few times that she would be embarrassed if any of the family stopped in so I don't think her house is spotless but I still don't think it's a huge problem. She has become fairly healthy emotionally so I think if she was still struggling with it she probably would have sought professional help.

For most of my younger years, my life was pretty structured. We had church at least three times a week. We would clean the entire house on Wednesday and Saturday. The house was always spotless for Sunday because often people would come over after the meetings at church. However, after my dad suddenly left the church, our lives lost much of the structure. My dad and Mother had many other things on their minds other than taking care of the children. Sometimes meals would be forgotten. The school work often went undone for days one end. We would end up doing school work on the weekends to catch up whenever Mother noticed that we were behind. People were stopping in at our house at all hours of the day and night and without any warning. Sometimes we would go weeks without seeing anyone.

With this lack of structure, my sisters and I started to let our room get a little messy. Once it got messy, Mother was just too busy and depressed to notice or ask us to clean it up. One very embarrassing day stands clear in my mind. We were having meetings some nights of the week in our home. For one such meeting, our room was an extreme mess. We closed the door and hoped that no one would go in. But we were not so lucky. The [Fitzgerald] family had many children and these children were crazy and energetic and disrespectful. Of course they had to see why that room door was closed. When they saw the mess, the laughed so hard at us. I think all the children in our group at the time laughed at us for weeks to come.

I've mentioned several times that at one point during my parent's time in the cult, we lost pretty much everything and started living in a very small space. At that time, all of my clothing had to be brought down to a total of three skirts/jumpers and five shirts. I had two pair of shoes (tennis shoes and church shoes). We each had a small Rubbermaid tote that was to hold all of our socks and underwear as well as any personal belongings. If we got too many personal belongings, we would have to "slim down" our tote so that everything could fit in there. We had to throw out anything extra. Several years later, we finally got to move into a three bedroom house. The space felt amazing, even if it was still packed with people.

For the first while in the new house, everything stayed tidy. However, over time, the floor got more and more cluttered. The closest started filling up and under the bunk beds started filling up. A few years later we were able to move to a bigger house, but my youngest sister and I continued to share the same room. That summer after moving into the bigger house is when our room started to explode. We had more space in the house so my Mother did not come up to our room that often. My Mother never cleaned at that point, so she never really pressured us to clean up.

I bought my first car the next summer. Our room was still so messy that I lost one set keys in there and never found them again. At that point, I started cleaning up my own mess. Although my sister's mess was still very bad, I would keep my half of everything clean. It looked pretty comical because we shared a dresser, where one side was mine and the other side was her's. The top of my side was clean and even dusted, while her half had at least a foot of things on it. Her side had drawers half pulled out and clothes hanging everywhere.

The next year I moved off to college. When I moved away, my younger sister's room totally exploded. I was the only person living in my first apartment. I spent the first week there reorganizing everything and making sure everything was in its spot. My apartment stayed mostly clean, but I do remember a few times that it did not. I had troubles doing my dishes regularly. I think many college students do struggle with that so that is probably not anything specific to my condition. However, there were a few times that I was embarrassed by the clutter. I remember one time I was in a hurry and looking for something specific that I couldn't find. I pulled out all the drawers in my dresser and spread them out on my floor. Of course that had to be the day that my group decided to come over for the evening. There were some giggles at me and I giggled in embarrassment but it wasn't too bad. I remember another time a friend stopped by unexpectedly and I had to quickly throw some clothes that were in the living room into my bedroom and close the door,.

Despite being fairly clean in my first apartment, I was still terrified about people coming over and my apartment being dirty. Whenever people would come over, I would try to get there a couple hours beforehand so that I could make sure that my apartment was spotless. I think the reason I was always worrying about my apartment being spotless was because my Mother always told us that if our cleaning was not spotless, it was not clean. She always expected perfection and if we did not give her perfection, we were a failure and we failed at our job.

The summer after my first apartment, I had to move out of my apartment and into another apartment that I shared with other roommates. I did not have time to sort through my things before moving into that apartment and for several months my room was packed full of clutter. However, over winter break I was able to organize my room once again. However, my car started to get out of hand. I always had clutter in it. I never wanted anyone to ride in it because I was embarrassed by the amount of stuff in my car. If someone were to ride in my car, I would stuff everything in the trunk. But I wouldn't clean out the trunk later. It got to the point where my trunk was full. One such day of stuffing everything in the trunk, there was food in there. I left that food in there for months. When I finally got around to cleaning out the trunk, I had maggots in my car that would fill my car up with flies.

The next year, I moved to yet another apartment and that's when my clutter got out of control once again. I was hiding everything in my room. I was embarrassed of my car. I pretty much tried to keep everything hidden. Things got very bad. I think what really saved me at that point was starting to date my now husband. I was forced to clean up so that I was not embarrassed by having him around. There were still times when the messiness got out of hand. The last time I was truly messy was when I had my mental breakdown. Once my boyfriend and I moved in together, I really started to keep everything in order. I still struggle sometimes with having a messy car but I am clean for the most part.

However, my precious sister is still very much struggling with clutter. In fact, she just lost custody of her kids because of the condition of her house. We have always made excuses for why our spaces were messy. After I moved out, our room got completely out of control. The cat  would mess in there. My sister would spill food and drink. The room became disgusting. When my sister moved with her husband, things did not get much better but she always blamed it on the living conditions. The finally were able to get a house of their own without living with other people. She always assured me that her house was in much better condition but this week proved that it actually may be the worse that it has ever been.

I think the biggest change for me was marrying a clean man. Maybe her issue was marrying a messy man. But I think there are deeper issues that caused all of the girls in our family to become messy.

Just an Embarrassing Story

My guess is that it is actually fairly easy to hack many Fundamentalist families accounts. Why? Because probably most of them have something to do with Jesus or the Kingdom of God or something along those lines. My Dad definitely did that. I think all of his passwords had something to do with his religion. If it was not Jesus, he would put it in Hebrew: Yeshua. So very creative and secure... (sarcasm dripping)

When I moved off to college, it was finally my chance to distance myself from all the craziness. I wanted to start to heal and I wanted to start to learning to be normal. I finally did not have someone watching my every move. I could actually have friends. I could actually do what I wanted (for the most part, except for the guilt that kept me from doing most things). My parents helped me move to college and helped me set up my first apartment. My wonderful Dad even set up my wifi router and password secured it. You guessed it. My password was "JesusisLord." I did not think much of it and anyway I was not near computer literate enough to figure out how to change it.

I quickly made non-Christian friends. One of those friends was a tall, handsome atheist. We hit it off wonderfully and started seeing each other every day. Our group of friends would hang out at all the apartments. One day we decided to hang out at my apartment. That boy needed to connect to the internet so he asked for my password. You can imagine the giggles as I tried to explain why such a normal girl with so many atheist friends had such a strange password. It was embarrassing and it still embarresses me this day. I don't know if that password was the start of the demise of my relationship with that guy or not, but not too long afterwards he started getting really distant. I will never know what happened with him since he pretty much just ran from me without explanation. I haven't talked to him in years. I will probably never get the answers to why he ran from me. He probably figured out pretty quickly that I was just too much crazy to handle.

Mental Health

Ever since I was sixteen, I've been the black sheep of the family. Seems like I've been the first to do many bad things. I was the first to be found out having sex outside of marriage. I was the first to publicly not be a Christian anymore. And I was the first to have a mental breakdown.

Homeschoolers Anonymous did a series about mental health awhile back. Honestly, I have not read many of the articles posted. I actually don't read many of the articles about mental health in homeschooling circles. Like my painful story that I shared last week about some of the sexual abuse as a child, mental health issues has not been a topic that I cannot fully face.

Like many fundamentalist families, mental health was never discussed in our family. Mental health was a word almost as bad as sex. Psychiatrist and the devil belonged in the same group. Mental health medications were something to be avoided at all cost. Mental health problems were often addressed as "demon possession." Going to a psychiatrist opened you up to demons and you were most definitely going to get taken over by demons if you even dared to think about taking medications. Despite the strong aversion to talking about mental health, my Mother had severe mental health problems. I will save those stories for another post, but for now I will just say that they were debilitating for her at times and often led to much of the abuse growing up.

Another thing that we had in common with many fundamentalist families is that the children were discouraged from forming any personality. Growing up my Mother always said that I was a tomboy or at least not a girly-girl. That was why my sister could have pink and baby blue dresses but I always had to have the brown, green, or dark blue. My Mother always said that I did not like pink. My Mother always said that I loved dark brown. I don't know if what she said is true. Growing up, I generally took what she said as being true. Although there were many time that I was very jealous of my sisters because they could wear the pretty colors because they were girly-girls. I don't know if I was a girly-girl on the inside growin up because I did not have any opinions of my own. I did not know what I liked or did not like. I had no personality. That was how we were raised. Despite not knowing what kind of style I liked as a child, I love pink now. My shoes are pink. My coffee mugs are pink. My phone case is pink. My towels are pink. My bed is pink. Almost half of all my shirts are pink. My purse is pink. Everything that isn't pink is some pastel girly color. I wear more make-up and jewelry than anyone in my family. I won't leave the house without make-up on. Given how I am now, I think that if I was allowed to express myself as a child, I would have been a very girly-girl.

By the time I reached adulthood, I had no opinions. I did not know who I was. I did not know how to tell if I was doing ok or not doing ok. Emotional and mental well-being was never taught. Church never taught it. It was never a book that Mother gave for us to read as part of our homeschooling curriculum. And it was definitely never mentioned around the dinner table at night. We were not supposed to have emotions. We could not cry. We could not laugh too much either. We could not feel anger. We could not even question why. With all of the suppression I knew nothing about listening to my own body and emotions.

It may seem harmless to never teach a child about mental health and taking care of your mental health. Surely, everyone knows when they have reached their limits. The problem is, I did not know. I did not know when I was doling ok and when I was not. I was always taught to just do as I was told and to not have any emotions about it.

That is how I found myself several years later in a new state, at a new job and in a new apartment without any friends or family around. I hated my job and was receiving the proper training or mentoring. I hated my living situation as I was renting a room from strangers that had lied about having live-in boyfriends. I was so uncomfortable in that house that I never went out of my room when they were there. I hated the state. It was cold and snowy and my car was having problems, including being without heat. Plus just everything was so different in that state. I was homesick for the mountains and the mountain people. I was hating my job. Plus, I was head-over-heals for my boyfriend whom I discovered was not so sure about me and did not want to move to that state with me. We broke up at least two times per week. To try to save my relationship, I would drive every weekend for at least six hours one way to spend the weekend with him. I would make the long cold drive back home either late Sunday night or early Monday morning. Sometimes I would start work on Monday without having slept the day before.

I was pushed beyond my limits. I was unhappy. I was hurting because of my relationship with my boyfriend. I was stressed at work and I was stressed at home. Then one day I hit a breaking point. I remember that day. It was a Thursday. My boyfriend had taken the week off and he was there with me, looking for jobs and apartments. Since my roommate said that my boyfriend could not stay there, we were staying in a hotel room. That Thursday, my boyfriend told me that he would not be moving up there with me because he was scared of the financial situation. I was devastated. Sure I did not love my job, but at least I was finally working in my career and was earning more money than I had ever had before. My mind told me that staying with the job was the right thing to do. I was never taught how to be happy so not being happy at my job did not seem like a big deal to me.

That dark Thursday, I completely shut down. My boyfriend did not love me enough to move to another state with me. We fought and were probably going to break up. The next day was a day from hell at working. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong. Because of all the problems that happened at my job on Friday, it was mandatory for everyone to work Saturday. However, my boyfriend had to get back home that Saturday and we had only driven one car. My boss said that I could not have the Saturday off because it was a mandatory work day.

That Friday, my roommate also frantically called me because she had just come out of her drug-induced haze long enough to realize that I had not been home all week. She completely forgot that she had told me that my boyfriend could not stay there that week so I had told her that I would not be there all week. I was super annoyed by her repeated calls and texts that I turned my phone off and headed to bed. The next morning, we got up and headed back to my boyfriend's home. I did not go to work and I did not turn my phone back on. I didn't turn my phone back on until that Tuesday. I was battling severe depression. I was a failure because I could not keep my job. I was depressed about the decision my boyfriend had made without any regard for my feelings.

When I turned my phone back on that Tuesday, I had  dozens of voicemails and texts. When unable to contact me, my crazy roommates had called my parents. When my parents could not contact me, they called the police for a missings persons. Because I had distanced myself from my family, my family did not even know for sure if I had a boyfriend, much less where he lived. By that time, there had been a missing persons case open for me for a couple days. The police were calling me. Friends I hadn't heard from in years were calling me. Everyone was saying that they would "love me no matter what." I was too scared to contact anyone. I did not want to explain to my parents. I did not want to talk to my crazy roommates. I just tried to hide. I did finally contact to police to cancel the missing person case. I then submitted myself in a psych ward. That turned out not being very good for me because of my severe anxiety. By the time I was released from the hospital, I was a nervous wreck with anxiety through the roof.

My mental breakdown was caused by many factors. One factor I know is that I was not listening to my own body. I was not taking care of my mental health. I did not even realize that my mental health was important. Mental health was for week, demon inhabited people. I was strong and smart. I did not need mental health.

This week has been extremely painful for me because I am watching my younger sister going through a similar mental breakdown. I don't know all of the details and I don't want to post them all here for her sake. However, I know the feeling all too well. She had a rough start to her young family but finally she and her husband had a good-paying job. However, once again, they did not enjoy the new state, they did not have any friends there, and they did not enjoy the job at all. It came to a breaking point. Unfortunately, she had a whole lot more to lose than just a career. Now my Mother has made an emergency visit to help her pick up the pieces of her life. I hurt so badly for her. She was following the formula our parents had given for her. She was working hard and ignoring her emotions, just like she was always taught. And she doesn't understand why this all has happened.

I am angry once again at our parents. Their teachings are still continuing to destroy our lives and cause us so much pain. Their teachings are still preventing us from living full, happy lives. I just wish I and all my siblings could break free of everything that is dragging us down. It's been a long, painful road, and I don't think it will be over any time soon. I just hope I can help guide my sister through it as she starts her own journey down the long, painful road.

I'm breaking inside for her.  

Emotional Pain

One of the best things about my life now is that I have finally found some relief from the emotional pain I was in for so many of my childhood years. If you've read some of the post on my blog, you probably realize that my current emotional state is not the greatest and my relationship with my husband is very rocky sometimes. Despite these painful times, the pain is so much less than the emotional pain I felt throughout my childhood.

As a young child, I was pretty happy. I never remember crying for what seemed no reason at all. Sure, there were times when I had to sneak out of bed at night with my brother so that we could find food. But at least I wasn't hurting emotionally. My parents started homeschooling and reading and promoting the Pearl books before I was born. However, their descent into the cult was more gradual. While I was still young, my parents moved to another state, probably to avoid CPS investigating our family. Moving to that state accelerated my parent's descent into the cult. A family friend suggested a church in the area. My parents were quickly drawn into the church and they were now involved in a full-blown cult. Soon after joining the cult is when my emotional pain started.

I still don't understand Mother's logic, but she likes to be different. Dear Mother bought fully into the cult concerning modesty, patriarchal beliefs, homeschooling, corporal punishment, and exclusiveness. However, Mother insisted that we had to be "different" in some way so that we could prove we were better than everyone else by not "conforming to the laws of man." Being "different" to my mother meant that we could not wear clothes exactly the same as everyone else in the church. We still made our dresses at home like everyone, but she would alter the pattern a small amount so that it was a little different. Our head coverings had to be a different color and a different shape than everyone else at the church. Being "different" in a cult where everyone  had cookie-cutter similarities was painful for a young girl that just wanted have friends and to fit in. I would push so hard just to have a dress that looked like all the other girls in the church. Or to even have a pink dress like everyone else instead of all my ugly brown dresses. Being "different" made me stand out and that was when I started to feel I was inferior to the other girls. I was thankful for any girl that would pay attention to me because I was the strange one. I was the ugly one. Only because Mother didn't want to "conform."

Although the next decade did have emotional pain of being "different," I still managed to keep two good friends. They usually accepted me, even if I was "different." I still wished I was part of a different family. I would still fantasize day and night about being in another family. But at least I wouldn't cry in bed every night about the emotional pain. But that all changed when my whole world crashed around me as a pre-teen. My Dad announced that he actually did not believe in the church that we had been pouring our lives into for the last decade. He had become a leader in the cult, and yet one morning he announced that we were leaving and that he actually never believed what we had been taught almost our entire lives. The cult was highly secretive, so I had no idea that there were even troubles between my Dad and the other leaders. That's when the emotional pain hit the heaviest.

Over the next year, the emotional pain got worse and worse. I would cry myself to sleep every night. Sometimes I did not even know why I was crying. Not knowing why I was crying only made things worse. By 14, I was secluded without any real friends and crying myself to sleep every night. I continued to cry myself to sleep for the next four years. Losing my friends was extremely painful for me. And now I was an outsider of the cult that I had been taught my whole life was the only true path. Now my Dad was telling us that his new ideas was the only true path to heaven, but how could I be sure that this was definitely the only true path? For a decade he let me believe the cult had been the only true path. Plus, my Dad's new ideas and new "church" had many problems. People came and went as a constantly rotating door. I just needed someone to tell me that I was on the right path and that someone actually wanted to be friends with me.

During this time, I started feeling extreme loneliness. I did not have many peers my age. The few girls that were my age that I was allowed to associate with were very toxic. My parents constantly warned me that they were not "good children" and that I should not hang around them very much. Because I did not have any peers close to my age, I developed strangely strong attachments to young mothers in our group. I am still baffled by the strength of emotion I felt for these women. They were my idols. They were on pedestals for me. But these young mothers never really paid attention to me. Sure, they would occasionally speak with me because I was constantly tagging along with them, but there was never any real communication. I would just sit and listen to them and soak up every detail of their lives. But the painful part about my obsessions was the extreme secrecy that was always kept in the cult. Even though I had already reached puberty and was going to be having babies of my own one day, everyone in my life made sure absolutely no one mentioned woman's issues around me. When one of the woman would become pregnant, it would be whispered about for months before finally telling me. Of course, by then I had already figured it out on my own.

During this time, I also craved any kind of physical contact. I would never dare to touch or hug my brothers. It was my job to make sure they kept pure and we already had issues within our family. I had to keep a safe distance from my brothers. While I loved my sisters, I would never imagine hugging them. The only time my parents touched me was to spank me. Some families believed in hugging after spankings but my family did not. Usually my Mother was so angry after spankings that all the children would flee the house for as long as possible. I would go months without so much as a hug from anyone. I remember longing so much for just a hug. I remember every day wishing that one of the young mothers would just hug me.

On top of the lack of friends, attention, and physical contact, my Dad's trouble with keeping people around that believed the same as he did deepened my hurt. For me, it was just one rejection after another. At one point the [Miller] family needed a place to stay and planned on moving into our house. I was ecstatic. I would have a young mother to be with me all the time! I looked forward to it for weeks. But it was not to be.

August 26, 2004 -- Thursday

The [Millers] are not coming to our meetings any more. They are not going to move into our house. They are leaving because: [other family's wife] speaks in the meetings, [single mother who was attracted to the group after her husband left her] head is not covered and she doesn't dress modestly and she speaks in the meetings. The [Millers] are angry because we did not address these issues before we tried to help [singer mother] in her financial place. [Mr. Miller] thinks that all of these should have been addressed awhile before this. Dad and Mother said that they think that [Mr. Miller] is just going to have to learn the hard way from this. I wish I could fly on wings as eagles away from troubles that tempest here; not to hurt when people leave. But we cant.

I clearly remember that day. I was sitting at my desk in my room crying like a schoolgirl who had her heart broken by her first boyfriend. I think the pain I felt that day was comparable to the pain young girls feel when they first get their heart broken. My attachment to the family was not normal. My attachment to the family was so strong that it broke my heart when they stopped talking to my family. I hurt so badly. I quickly became attached to another family, but they too would break my heart. When I read the passage from my journal that I posted here, I noticed something new. "Dad and Mother said that they think that [Mr. Miller] is just going to have to learn the hard way from this." When all of this happened, I always thought that my parents felt just as much pain as I did. However, when I read that line I could see that they could care less whether that family came or went. I'm sure they had no idea about the emotional attachment I had with the family, but even if they did they still would have had complete disregard for my feelings. That family and my feelings were just another pawn in their game. The family was disposable. My feelings were disposable. After that entry, my life just spiralled darker and darker. More and more people left and my parents had less and less regards to my feelings. Not too much later I stopped journaling for the most part.

My memories of the next couple years became blurry as I started to just try to survive. We lost our house and lived in a small space on another family's property. My Mother did not want to "interfere" with the lives of the family we were staying with, so she would keep us secluded outside in our cramped space for hours or even days at a time. Often we did not have water and the small amount of food we had was often disgusting. While we were forced to stay out of sight, my Dad and Mother would spend endless hours with the family. Often they would stay up late into the night talking with the family. Sometimes their laughter would float out into the night while laid on my cot and cried from loneliness. I could never figure out what was so wrong with me that my Mother did not want me around other families. I wondered what was so wrong with me that no other families ever stepped in and intervened. I wondered what was so wrong with me that other families often had so much good food to eat and yet they would never offer it to me or my painfully skinny brothers.