Years of preserving my virginity led me to a place of desperation and utter self-destruction. The overlooked one suddenly had attention, but at such a high cost.
cfctoo.com/stories/wrens-story
CFC didn't see an abused young woman. They saw a rebellious one. They didn't see someone who was being taken advantage of by a narcissist. They just saw a girl who turned her back on her beliefs.
They didn’t see that I was drowning.
That's when the meetings started. Unending meetings. In one meeting, Rick Sinclair told me that I was an embarrassment to the church. I received it. I internalized it and I agreed with it.
I had already removed myself from ministry voluntarily because a lifetime of conditioning told me I was in sin and didn’t deserve that position any longer. We were in agreement that I had fallen from grace.
I was drowning.
The response from CFC leaders was to threaten to strip me of membership as I drowned. CFC leaders cornered me in my workplace, harassing me in the aisles as I stocked shelves, reminding me that I needed to kick my abuser out.
One pastor’s wife tried to show up at my house, presumably with the intention of confronting my abusive housemate herself. I eventually stopped agreeing to meet because the meetings grew increasingly hostile as their panic rose. I wasn't submitting. I wasn't kicking him out.
I was drowning.
They finally trapped me into a meeting before I was allowed to attend Presbytery. My own father had reached out to them, asking if I was allowed to attend despite the fact it was open to the public.
I still wonder if he wanted to avoid a scene and was worried they were going to publicly ask me to leave, but CFC leadership used his inquiry as another opportunity to corner me.
That's when they challenged my church membership. They pulled up scripture stating that it was the biblical thing for them to do. I was in sexual sin and they should shun me. They could have no part of me until I repented.
There were no recommendations for therapy or assistance. There was no escape plan, outside of “just kick the man and his toddler out.” No one could see through my obsession for acceptance and love to the broken girl inside.
They didn’t see the little girl whose confidence had been shattered by years of CFC and CFA cliques and rejection.
It was my work colleagues who identified that I spoke like a rape victim, not the pastors that were supposed to shepherd and protect me. If I mentioned any sexual encounters, the pastors responded with disgust.
When I “bragged” to Rick Sinclair that I hadn’t slept with my abuser in three months, he didn’t hear me saying that I was finally able to say no. He didn’t see the strength required to reject the manipulation and coercion.
He didn’t see that I was drowning.
It wasn't until 36 years of age that I started to unpack my church and intimate partner trauma.
How could I end up vulnerable to such a man? Because I was used to abuse at the hands of the church.
The church told me throughout my whole life that I was nothing without God. I was nothing but a wretch. Nothing but sinful and worthless without a savior. I was helpless and weak, deserving of damnation.
His manipulation and coercion felt commonplace and comforting. I was taught to follow the pastor and not to question his teaching. I was taught to do what I was told. When this young man entered my life and told me that I needed him, it felt normal.
When my abuser treated me like I was weak and useless and could be walked all over, it felt familiar. It was the comforting chaos of trauma. It was all I'd ever known.
Drowning. That was love, right?