Welcome to Healing is My Special Interest—the newsletter at the intersection of late-diagnosed neurodivergence and healing from high control religion. Today’s post is extra vulnerable and is behind the paywall (I write one personal essay a month for paid subscribers). Both for my sense of safety and because I am passionate about being in control of sharing my specific story. As always, if you are unable to afford a subscription, please reach out to me at dlmmcsweeneys@gmail.com and we can get you sorted. For everyone who supports this newsletter, you have helped me create a sense of safety and self-expression that has allowed me to be honest about my childhood in public for the very first time, and given me the means to publish it on my own terms. Thank you, so much.
Little Lamb
CW: religious abuse, childhood suicidal ideation, end times trauma
I had a short, shiny version of my childhood I trotted out dutifully when asked1. I never thought too hard about it, because I tried very hard to forget my childhood. If I forgot it, then maybe it didn’t happen. So I created an acceptable, short-hand version, and it went something like this:
I was a homeschooled pastor’s kid whose family moved around the western half of the United States a bunch. I was shy, serious, and sheltered. I always wanted to be a missionary. I never had a thought to do anything but serve God. And then I slowly woke up to the reality that both my country and my religion was only good news for people just like myself—white, middle-class, heteronormative.
The real version of this story starts with this truth:
Evangelical Christianity was never good for me, either.
So why had I dedicated my entire life to pretending that it was?
//
My earliest memories are of my mother talking to me about God. This is the only time I remember the full force of her attention on me. To be honest, I don’t have a lot of memories of childhood2. I was by myself much of the time. I don’t remember my mom teaching me much at all, and I read books and filled out worksheets on my own. The time she gave me and my two sisters her full attention was during the daily Bible studies we had every morning. She taught us to learn to listen to God and to obey without question. She told me constantly about how God talked to her, and I believed every word. My mother was like my own deity—beautiful, inscrutable, terrifying, wise. Someone I was desperately always trying to get the attention of, and yet when I finally had it—it only led me to feeling more scared and alone.
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