Chapter Twenty
CHAPTER TWENTY
CLAIR E
The weeks pass quickly despite the way time seems to stand still whenever Mark and I are in the same room. We still haven’t spoken about the kiss or the aftermath, but I can feel the conflict bubbling just underneath the surface for both of us. I should bring it up and get it out of the way, but despite the progress I’ve made in therapy lately, I still have a difficult time speaking up for myself.
After a lifetime of being silenced and avoiding making waves, it still feels impossible to do what’s best for me sometimes. Would it help me to get things off my chest and talk to Mark about what happened? Absolutely. Does the idea also send me into a tailspin of worry? More than I’d care to admit. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to let go of all the fear and negativity that’s shaped me.
But I was raised on fear. Even though my father preached about following God’s word, it was the fear of eternal damnation that seemed to motivate everyone to listen. But fear is a powerful thing, and I suspect that, on some level, he knew that. If you make people afraid, they’ll do whatever they can to avoid whatever perilous fate you’ve made them believe awaits them. They’re easier to control that way. Go figure.
It worked on my older brothers and sisters, and it easily could have worked on me if I hadn’t had so many questions—ones I was repeatedly chastised for asking. In a roundabout way, I’m grateful they they refused to cater to my curiosity, because it led me to seek out my own answers instead of taking everything my parents and the church said at face value.
I could never understand why curiosity would be punished until I finally realized that I was asking questions they didn’t know the answers to, and deep down, that scared them. It’s much easier to believe what you want with unquestioning loyalty than it is to think critically about the fact that you could possibly be wrong about something. Indoctrination is a hell of a drug.
When I had explained a little bit more about my life to Mark a couple weeks ago and told him how I was chastised for asking questions, he had said, "If someone gets mad at you for asking questions, they probably have something to hide. You wanting to know more about something is only threatening to those who want to keep you in the dark." His words have resonated in my mind constantly, reminding me what I left behind.
The topic is still weighing heavy on my mind when I go to see Dr. Lawrence on Wednesday afternoon. It’s my fourth meeting with her, and I already feel like I’ve made so much progress in just this short time. I’m opening up more and more, and I’m starting to remember little things about my past that I had completely forgotten about. Things that once seemed insignificant or normal are coming out, only for me to realize how odd they were.
One in particular seems to grab Dr. Lawrence’s attention.
"Could you tell me more about that?" she asks when I mention the ceremony that would mark our transition into adulthood.
"Well, they said that getting closer to God and becoming enlightened was the most important part of becoming an adult. You know how people do fasts because it makes them feel more connected to their spiritual side?"
She nods, her eyes kind as she listens.
"Well, it was sort of like fasting, except for food and sleep. We got water, but it was limited. It was supposed to strip us of our worldly needs so that we could better hear God’s word. The entire forty-eight hours were filled with sermons and prayer, and we weren’t allowed to sleep. The adults traded off shifts, but the small group of us were forced to stay awake. When we were instructed to pray on our own, we had to do it aloud so they knew we weren’t sleeping while our eyes were closed."
"And what do you think about all of this? How did you feel about it when you went through it yourself?"
"I was terrified," I admit. "I watched three of my older siblings go through it when they turned seventeen, and they seemed… different when they came out of it. Like it was the final push they needed to be fully immersed in what they were supposed to become. It was presented to us as this massive milestone, but I was so scared that somehow, once I went through it, I’d turn out just like everyone else."
Dr. Lawrence nods sympathetically.
I continue. "By that point, I was already questioning my beliefs, but nobody knew that, and I didn’t have the option to refuse the ceremony. But I knew the basics of what to expect based on whispers I’d overheard from my peers one day after church. So I mentally prepared myself, and when the time came, I managed to get through even though it was the weirdest experience of my life. Sleep deprivation is no joke."
My eyes drop to the floor as the memories come flooding back. Sitting there in a hard, uncomfortable pew with only my thoughts to keep me company, starting to fall asleep only to be woken by the infuriating voice of one of the church elders. "I know it probably sounds silly that that experience was so hard on me."
"That does not sound silly. Your feelings of fear were completely justified. All of those things are tell-tale signs of cult behavior and attempts at emotional control and manipulation."
"Oh." My brow furrows. I know things were a bit extreme at home, but a cult? The word brings to mind images much harsher than what I experienced. Sure, the community was isolated and selective, and the religious beliefs were on the more severe side, but there were also so many little moments of love and happiness. My mind is whirling when Dr. Lawrence interrupts my thoughts.
"That statement seems to have a strong effect on you."
I nod.
"Would you like to explore that a little more?"
This is the hard part—putting my thoughts into words that might make sense to others. "Sure. I just…I was surprised by the word ‘cult’ because it seems a bit extreme. What I went through feels unfair, but a cult ?"
"It’s understandable why you would feel that way. We’re often so desensitized to the way we grew up that it’s difficult to step back and see just how serious things were. I don’t claim to be an expert on this sort of thing, but I’d be happy to give you some resources if you feel comfortable reading more on the topic."
"Sure, that would be great."
"So, how are things going as far as school and your living situation?" she asks. I know she’s sort of asking about Mark without making it too obvious, but that’s fine.
"I love school. Being able to challenge myself intellectually and read thought-provoking literature is a dream come true." Even though I don’t participate much in class conversations, listening to others debate about things like morality and nature versus nurture between my English and Psych classes is enlightening. I never thought I’d see the day where I could sit in a room of people not only questioning things, but being encouraged to think critically. It’s everything that my church wasn’t.
"That’s wonderful to hear. And your living situation?" she prompts, sensing my hesitancy to talk about that.
"That’s a little more complicated."
"How so?"
I’ve told Dr. Lawrence about Mark—obviously, since he’s the reason I’m here in the first place—and I told her about the kiss and how confusing his reaction was, but I somehow managed to skirt around the topic of me running into the woman he brought home two weeks later. We’ve been focusing more on my upbringing and current moral and religious struggles during our last few sessions.
"Well, two weeks after he kissed me, one of my night classes had been canceled, but I didn’t tell him because I assumed he’d just be home when I got back. So I went grocery shopping and had just finished putting groceries away in the kitchen when a woman walked out of his room and left. She was adjusting her shirt in a way that made it clear she had just put it back on."
"And how did you feel about that?"
"It hurt more than I expected it to. I didn’t think he’d actually want me for a real relationship or anything, but I felt sort of used after he kissed me and then acted like nothing happened. But then he was being so weird when I brought a male classmate over to work on our group project, like he was jealous or something. It makes no freaking sense," I huff, annoyed all over again at Mark’s mixed signals.
"Have you talked to him about how you feel?"
I shake my head.
"Why not?" Her voice is soft, the question sounding more curious than judgmental. Which, I suppose, is her job, but she’s still great at giving me the space I need to talk like this.
"I’m just scared, I guess. What if he gets mad at me or thinks I’m too needy if I ask him about it?"
"Has he ever given you any indication that he would get angry with you for how you feel?"
"No."
"Do you think that may be a false belief you’re carrying from your upbringing? That having difficult conversations may be a bad thing instead of acting as conflict resolution?"
Damn. She’s right. I voice my agreement, and she gives me a kind smile but continues. "As far as you worrying he’ll think you’re needy… There is nothing wrong with asking for what you want. And if you want to pursue a relationship with him, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe his desires are different from your own, and maybe you don’t end up being compatible, but that’s not your burden to bear. All you can do is make yourself heard, but if you don’t voice it, you can’t expect him to read your mind just as you can’t expect to read hi s."
Something clicks into place as she speaks, and I realize that, once again, she’s telling me exactly what I need to hear. When I don’t speak, she continues.
"I think you’ve become so averse to voicing your wants and needs because of the environment you were raised in, but it’s important to understand that you shouldn’t feel the need to minimize yourself to avoid potential conflict. Regardless of the outcome, you are not responsible for his reaction to you voicing your feelings."
"Thank you." It’s all I can think to say.
"No need to thank me. I’m just glad to talk through this with you, and I think you’re taking great steps to become who you want to be."
Glancing at the clock, I realize our session is already coming to an end, so I stand and sling my purse over my shoulder.
"I’ll email you those resources we talked about," Dr. Lawrence says as I make my way to the door.
"Thanks again!" I call out.
A couple hours later while I’m sitting in the school library waiting to head into my Psych class for the night, I check my email. When Mark loaned me his old laptop, I made a personal email in addition to my school one, but I can’t remember which I gave to Dr. Lawrence’s office.
I check my personal email first and find nothing important. But when I open up my school email account, it’s not Dr. Lawrence’s message that grabs my attention, it’s the one just below it with a subject line reading, "Come Home, Claire."
What the actual hell ?
With shaking hands and my heart hammering in my chest, I click on the email.
" Please come home, Claire. We miss you. We understand that you’ve been tempted, but it’s never too late to repent and return home where you belong. We will forgive you for abandoning us, just as God will.
‘For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.’
-Romans 3:23
‘For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.’
-Romans 10:13 "
A million thoughts race through my head at once. One of my family members clearly sent this, but which one? And more importantly, how did they get this email address? What if they find me?
The guilt crashes on my chest as I imagine my younger sister being the one who sent the email. She’s the only one I truly feel guilty about leaving behind because she’s the only other one I could imagine feeling the same way as I do about life at home.
But ignoring the fact that my sister likely would have no means of emailing me, the guilt trip disguised as concern has the markings of my mother all over it. I know her intentions are in the right place—it’s kind of hard to blame her for worrying when she’s fully convinced I’ll be damned to hellfire for eternity—but she’s always been too intent on smoothing things over, especially when it comes to my father’s anger.
My older siblings seem to have taken the same path as her, placating my father and trying to be the best they could in my parents’ and the community’s eyes. For my sisters, that meant dedicating their lives to having babies and being subservient housewives who couldn’t possibly think for themselves, and for my brother, it meant becoming an important figure in the church.
I decide that not replying is the best action to take. She can email me all she wants, assuming it is my mother, but she’ll have no way to argue if I give nothing in return. I refuse to let myself be guilted into going back. But even more than that, I refuse to go back to hiding behind a mask, being the pliant girl with a fake smile eternally plastered on in the hopes that hiding my misery will earn me a spot in Heaven.
My thoughts are still spinning as I make my way to class and take my usual seat. Between my talk with Dr. Lawrence today and this strange email, so many memories are flooding back.
The word "cult" threw me for a loop in therapy earlier, but the more I think about it, the more I feel it might fit.
I open up a Google search and type in "signs of a religious cult." The results that pop up make my stomach churn, and each link I click on gives more proof that I’ve been living in something so much worse than I realized.
Isolation from people outside of the organization and punishment for leaving.
Unquestioning loyalty to the leader and/or the cause.
No tolerance for criticism or questioning; discouraging critical thinking.
Using interpretations of religious texts to invoke fear and manipulate members.
An "us versus them" mentality.
It all fits perfectly.
The class lecture starts, but I’m falling deep into the rabbit hole and have no plan to pay attention tonight. I think about how my father would preach about how the worldly, secular people were damned and would happily drag us away from God if given the chance; how we should avoid them if unable to convert them (not that we had much contact with the outside world anyway). The Bible was used practically as law, but when I would ask about certain passages in a critical context, I was brushed off.
I click on a related article, the voice of my psychology professor lecturing about operant conditioning somewhere in my periphery.
But what I read next makes my blood run cold. An article about methods of brainwashing used in cults. It lists the same things that were practiced in our enlightenment ceremony: sleep and food deprivation, isolation, repetition through prayer.
It’s so much worse than I thought.
It’s hard to know what’s considered "normal" in the outside world when you’ve been so isolated your whole life, but this transcends any beliefs I had about my previous situation being normal or acceptable.
Part of me wants to break down and cry, but to my surprise, my body floods with something else: anger. Pure, burning rage. At my parents, at my community, at the fact that my entire childhood was lost to this screwed up way of living. Those are years I’ll never get back, and I spent them keeping my head down, staying quiet, and fearing punishment.
How could any parent put their child through something so terrible in the name of love? It’s like a knife in my chest knowing that the people who were supposed to protect me and love me managed to become so entrenched in their belief systems that they’d rather oppress me instead of allowing me to grow into my true self.
I close my laptop, knowing that if I think about this anymore right now, the tears pricking at my eyes will start to spill.
I force myself to focus on the lecture with the comfort of knowing that I’ll be writing about this and letting the tears out later in the safety of my bedroom.