I got out twice...

The first time, I was a college senior. I often cowered under my dorm bed crying, while my boyfriend mercilessly berated me for any number of “transgressions.” I tried all kinds of things to hide my puffy eyes, from blowing cold air on them to holding ice cubes against my face in the mornings. Every day, I wished that he would hit me. Just once, and then I might have a reason to leave.

Until I Googled the words “emotional abuse.” I began to plan my escape, and sought help from some women I trusted at a local church.

“Why don’t you move in with us?” the pastor asked, while I sobbed out my story. I thought for a moment. I knew these people lived together and were deeply committed to their faith. My abuser could find me if I stayed on campus. I felt like I had no other option. At least with the church, I felt protected.

I moved in immediately, and cut off the relationship. Recruiting was really easy; I was an incredibly vulnerable target. My will had been broken during the two years of abuse. It didn’t take long for my pastor to convince me that I had been fifty percent to blame for my abusive relationship, and that I needed to get serious about God if I wanted to change.

I made a lifetime commitment of membership a year later. I gave all of my life decisions over to the church. I did not have autonomy in choosing my career, wedding date, living situation, or the timing of my baby. And I was perfectly fine with this, because I was doing it entirely in obedience to God.

The night I woke up was the night that nearly everybody woke up. It was Good Friday. We were called to an emergency meeting. Upon arriving, I felt sick, terrified. Grown men were crying. Who had died? Or who had left? I didn’t know which was worse.

I learned that night that my pastor had been involved in sexual misconduct with women who I was close with, who I called my sisters. I learned that week that he claimed they were affairs. I learned on Tuesday that it was abuse. I learned that month that I had spent the last nine years of my life in a cult.

We left. It was the first time my husband and I had ever spoken about leaving. The first time I had allowed myself to even think about leaving. The first time I had ever thought that, just maybe, to leave would not be equivalent to rejecting God.

Now, I am learning to be free. I am learning the nature of my own decision-making. Of life as an individual. Of a life in which my husband and I decide how we want to parent, where we want to live, and who we want our friends to be. Slowly, we are rebuilding our lives, and are so relieved to pass on a life of freedom to our sweet daughter.

~Lis