As a child, my life revolved around family dinners where we bowed our heads, dressing up for Sunday services, and saying my prayers each night. However, it wasn’t until my teenage years that I began to explore a deeper spirituality on my own terms.
During my freshman year of high school, my mother and I discovered what we would come to call our “home church.” The atmosphere was relaxed, the congregation felt genuine, and the worship team performed engaging songs rather than traditional hymns. But what truly drew us in was the preacher’s ability to deliver messages that felt personally tailored to our experiences.
The sense of community we found there was something I cherished most about attending Sunday services. It was that unspoken bond, the kind that conveys, “You look cold, come inside and warm up,” without uttering a word. It felt like a comforting hug from a grandmother on a tough day, embodying that feeling of belonging.
As time passed, our church began to shift from a contemporary to a more charismatic style. Discussions around the gifts of the Holy Spirit became more common, including speaking in tongues and healing. While not every service focused on these themes, witnessing people “falling out” during altar calls became a regular occurrence. For those unfamiliar, this refers to individuals collapsing in response to what is perceived as the overwhelming presence of the Holy Spirit.
Doubts about the authenticity of these displays created a divide within the congregation. Those who questioned were often seen as unprepared for deeper spiritual experiences, establishing a hierarchy that suggested unless you were baptized in the Holy Spirit, you weren’t at the top.
At this point, I was heavily involved in the church, often spending nearly every day there, either serving or just hanging out. The church leaders embraced me, making me feel special during a tough time in my life. So when they invited me to be baptized in the Holy Spirit, I felt honored.
It was as if they believed I was unique enough to speak in tongues, but they insisted my mother shouldn’t be present. Despite my reservations, I attempted to speak gibberish because I felt it was expected of me. While everyone else felt a surge of emotion, I felt nothing.
As I grew older, the “golden child” status faded. I struggled with drugs, alcohol, an eating disorder, self-harm, and suicidal thoughts, compounded by relentless bullying at school. While any mental health professional would have recognized my need for help, the church viewed my struggles as spiritual issues.
My mother desperately sought a way to transfer me to a private school, but as a single teacher, she faced financial barriers. One day, our pastor announced that he had arranged sponsorship for my tuition from two “black suit” gentlemen, presenting it as a selfless act on his part.
My mom and I were overwhelmed with gratitude, but it was nearly a year later that I learned the truth. During a summer visit to our lake house, my uncle inadvertently revealed that those sponsors were my own uncles, who had never met our pastor. This revelation should have prompted us to leave the church, but instead, the leaders spun the narrative to maintain their image.
Tensions grew as the new school failed to provide the help I needed. My mother faced pressure from the church leaders, who imposed their toxic beliefs about parenting. They would come to our home and pray over me while I was alone, declaring, “I rebuke Satan from this child of God.” When my mom finally sent me to rehab, the pastor ominously warned, “If you leave this rehab before you are ready, I will hunt you down.” I couldn’t help but feel that these statements were far from Christ-like.
I did leave that rehab, as it wasn’t the right fit. Upon returning to church with a messy bun, my mentors noted my appearance and claimed they could predict my downward spiral. It felt as though they assumed they knew me better than I knew myself.
The mentors often expressed doubts about my salvation due to their perception of my struggles, framing my depression as a spiritual failure. Growing up with a fear of hell, their views had a profound impact on me.
Only as an adult did I grasp the unhealthy dynamics in these relationships. When I started to think for myself, some leaders blocked me on social media, shunning me. The mixed feelings about those who wronged me lingered; I still cared for them, despite their treatment of me.
Now that I’m the same age as the leaders who mentored me, I find their behavior appalling. I continue to unravel the beliefs imposed on me by church leaders, reevaluating notions of purity, accepting that being gay isn’t sinful, and confronting my lingering fears about hell. It’s become clear that the deities we worship often do not share the same values.
I would never treat a child the way I was treated. My mental illness was overlooked, and instead of being seen for who I was, I became a project for their spiritual awakening.
For those navigating similar experiences, this post explores the complexities of church trauma and its lasting effects. If you’re interested in further reading on related topics, check out this blog post on home insemination kits, which touches on personal journeys and experiences. Additionally, Make A Mom is a reputable source for insights on fertility and family planning, while Progyny offers valuable information about pregnancy and home insemination.
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Summary: This blog post reflects on the complexities of church trauma, detailing personal experiences of spirituality, community, and the negative impacts of a toxic church environment. It emphasizes the importance of recognizing mental health needs and reevaluates the beliefs instilled by church leaders.
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