I've wanted to find the words to tell this story for a long time now. Finally, I decided to sit down and write my story out; to get it all expressed in black and white. This is my experience with religious trauma, and my experience with finding my way back to religion and faith. This is only my experience with religious trauma. I do not claim to speak for everyone who is affected by this. I am not a great autobiographical writer, and I apologize for any awkwardness or stiffness in my writing.
What is religious trauma?
"Religious Trauma Syndrome is the condition experienced by people who are struggling with leaving an authoritarian, dogmatic religion and coping with the damage of indoctrination. They may be going through the shattering of a personally meaningful faith and/or breaking away from a controlling community and lifestyle." (source)
"Some churches “weaponize scripture and religion to do very deep damage on the psyche,” he said. Gay, lesbian and trans people are told that God condemns them, unwed mothers that they are living in sin, and many natural human desires are deemed evil. Scientific research into the consequences of such religious condemnation remains at an early stage. But the potential for harm is clear. Many suffer for decades from post-traumatic stress disorder-type symptoms, including anxiety, self doubt and feelings of social inadequacy." (source)
Trigger Warning: religious trauma, anxiety, depression, homophobia and transphobia (including internalized), and violence
I was twelve years old, and I had just realized that I'm queer. I remember feeling a jolt of unadulterated fear shoot through my body as I realized what that will mean for me. The words my mother had uttered the week prior echoed through my head as I sunk to the bathroom floor.
My family had been watching a TV show called Dr. Ken. The show featured a gay couple, and that week they had gotten married. As the couple had kissed to celebrate their new marriage, my mother's face formed a look of hate so strong I almost burst into tears looking at it.
I know why she feels this way. I have heard her, and the rest of my family, talk about their feelings towards LGBTQ+ people countless times before. I had heard my grandmother say that her long-time friend, a pastor, should not have allowed his son and his partner to get married in his church, much less officiate their 'sinful' ceremony. My parents would skip scenes in movies or TV shows that showed a queer couple even kissing. I had heard my parents talk about homophobia and transphobia and describe it as "religious freedom." My family loved to weaponize their faith in God against queer and trans people; I knew what it meant for my life when I realized I was queer. There would come a time when I would have to choose between living my life as I was, or remaining a member of my family.
At first, I repressed what I had realized about myself. I threw myself into crushes on boys, ignoring my obvious feelings for women. I did not speak of it. I was terrified of what would happen if my parents found out. I began to develop severe symptoms of anxiety. I thought that I was sinful and disgusting, and I believed my family when they said I would go to Hell. I kept myself up at night worrying about something I had said or done that day, worrying that I had appeared to be anything other than the facade of heterosexuality I worked so hard to maintain. My grades in school started to slip, and I was failing test after test. I was punished for 'not studying enough,' which was what my parents assumed my problem was. I couldn't tell them any differently. My mental health got worse over the course of the year, as my relationship with my parents deteriorated with my school grades. I felt hopeless, and couldn't see a way out of my situation. College, and freedom, seemed so far away that it felt like a fantasy.
About this time, my parents started taking me to confirmation class at our church. I was supposed to be learning about God and the Bible with the eventual intention of 'confirming my faith' in front of our whole church. I never expressed interest in the class, and found it to be a fierce and daunting reminder of my fears. I dreaded going every week, knowing that it would trigger intense symptoms of anxiety and I wouldn't be able to hide from my shame anymore. When I would go, I would stop listening to the pastor talk about God's love and salvation, instead remembering all the times my family had used God and his book to justify their hatred.
After class one night, my mother asked me if I believed in God; I told her I didn't. She looked at me for a minute, and just said "you will." I still had to finish the class, and pronounce my 'love' for God in front of the whole church. I felt awful the whole day for lying, but my parents would not accept that I didn't follow or find comfort in their faith. To me, Christianity was a stifling chain that kept me trapped in the dark. It was a story used to guilt and shame people like me into hating themselves, not a lifeline.
My parents, over the years, took every opportunity they saw to force me to follow their religious beliefs. I was made to pray out loud in public, despite repeatedly and explicitly stating that it made me uncomfortable. I had to go to youth group and Bible studies no matter how hard I protested. I was also forced to watch The Passion of the Christ, in all its gore and brutality, in what was in hindsight an emotional manipulation tactic. My parents sat me down and made me watch the movie on Easter. My mother said "this is what Jesus did for you" as we watched him get whipped to bloody shreds of skin on the TV screen. In tears, I asked if we could turn the movie off, if we could watch anything else. I was told no, and that I needed to be grateful for his sacrifice. If church and my parents' lectures couldn't make me see, then this would.
The next school year brought some relief. My best friend had come out to me as bisexual, and for the first time I didn't feel completely alone. It was two more months before I worked up the courage to tell her that I wasn't straight either, but I was met with validation and support when I did. She introduced me to other queer students she knew, and I found myself slowly crawling out of the hole I had fallen into. I was able to talk about the things my parents still said, and how awful they made me feel. With the help of my new friends, I was able to find the sense of community and acceptance I had been longing for. Slowly, I was able to overcome some of my feelings of shame and terror. I was making progress.
By ninth grade, I was fully out of the closet to most of my friends. I had somewhat come out of my shell, and my anxiety was beginning to fade away. I had come to terms with who I was, and accepted that my parents never would. However, I never intended for them to find out.
That plan only lasted another few months. My mother and I were alone in the living room one night, and she suddenly and unexplainably turned to me and asked if I was gay. I froze, the sound of my heartbeat kicking up in my ears. My throat turned dry, and I thought I would pass out from fear on the spot. "Well?"she asked. I creaked out a lie: I don't know. I lied and I told her I wasn't sure when really I had never been so sure of anything. She looked at me, and told me that my questioning was 'probably just a phase.' And that she, and God, loved me anyways.
Anyways.
Like being queer was something that could discount me from her love. Like she loved me in spite of what she perceived as a grievous flaw.
We didn't speak about it again until a few months later, when I finally told her that I was bisexual. She heard me speak the words, heard me admit it out loud in front of her, and she said nothing. She turned and walked away. We didn't speak of it again after that. My family's behavior didn't change with the knowledge that I was queer. They still showed no shame in speaking openly of their religiously-validated hatred for LGBTQ+ people. My mental health worsened with the knowledge that I had been correct: I would give up myself or I would give up my family. At least this time around, I was able to cope with my anxiety. The only difference was that I now had the support and love of my friends to help me through it.
Later, my friend launched a GSA at our highschool. It was at this club, surrounded by people just like me, that I was able to come out again. I told the whole group with pride that I was non-binary, and I got to give my pronouns for the first time. My announcement was immediately met with cheers and congratulations and hugs. I knew then that I would never be able to give up myself. I would have to lose my family to be able to live as I needed to.
I also found paganism that year. I researched it on a whim one day, and was elated to find a religion that not only accepted queerness and gender-queerness, but actively venerated it. I saw Apollo, with both male and female lovers, and Dionysus, who walked the border between masculine and feminine. I plunged right in, but was still met with some conflict within myself. I wasn't used to feeling comfortable in religion, and the dark cloud that was Christian ideology still hung over my head. I couldn't pray to the Gods; I couldn't capitalize their names or even admit to myself that I was religious. I told myself it was 'deity work,' and that it was a practice and a part of my witchcraft. Not a religion.
I was, of course, wrong in that belief. It only took me a few months of building up my relationship and trust in the Gods before I could pray, and before I admitted that I was religious. I had to realize that Christianity did not own the concept of religion and that I could be religious without being Christian. With Apollo's help, I was able to break down the first layer of my religious trauma. I allowed myself to find solace in the Hellenic gods, to trust and love them as I never had been able to love a deity before. Apollo, god of healing, had started me on my journey of processing and overcoming my religious trauma.
I also began working with Aphrodite to overcome my internalized homophobia. I needed her help to finally be able to see that my love and affection for women was not sinful; it was not evil or dirty or disgusting. It is love, and it is beautiful in her eyes. Aphrodite helped me to break down my hatred and shame for my sexuality, and to finally begin to date women.
About ten months later, Lucifer entered my life. Lucifer helped, and is helping, me overcome the final stages of my religious trauma. With his guidance, I have begun to reconcile with Christianity. Lucifer has taught me that I cannot ignore it and hide from it anymore, and that doing so will only increase my anxiety when forced to acknowledge it. I have begun to re-consider its teachings and to determine between the actuality of what the Christian faith is and what is supported by some people who follow it. Although I was raised Methodist, I have found that I resonate far more with folk Catholicism. I have begun to interact with the Saints and the Angels, and I hope one day to be able to interact with God or Jesus again. Church services, as well as Christian music and movies, still trigger feelings of shame, guilt, and fear for me, but it is nowhere near as bad as it used to be.
I do not use Christianity as the focal point of my religious beliefs; that place will always be held by Apollo and Hellenic polytheism. Starting to utilize and venerate aspects of Christianity again is simply a way for me to take the power away from it. I am not acknowledging Christianity again with the intent to fully convert, but with the intention to replace its harmful grasp on me with different memories of religion on my own terms. I keep the thoughts and political ideologies of my family and the rest of the Conservative Christian movement out of my interactions with Christianity.
While my relationship with religion has improved, my relationship with my family has not. They still do not acknowledge the fact that I am queer, and still continue to make derogatory and hateful statements about LGBTQ+ people where I can hear them. My relationship with my family will probably never improve, but I've made my peace with that. I would rather give up people who don't really love me as I am then give up living my life as I need to in order to preserve my mental health.
I have been able to make a lot of progress so far, but I am nowhere near fully healed. My journey is not close to over, and a vast amount of work is still ahead of me. I am proud of how far I have come from that terrified little girl I was. I am proud that although I am still affected by my negative experiences with religion during my upbringing, I have found the strength of will to be able to overcome it. The Gods will always have my gratitude for helping me find peace, happiness, and comfort along the way.
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