Thinking back and trying to define occurrences in my life that were truly traumatic, I came up with these three events.

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1. When I turned 8 years old, it was my time to be baptized. I was excited and couldn’t wait for that day to arrive. I remember my Parents taking me to the church house and handing me a paper bag that contained some white clothes. I changed clothes in a spare classroom, and met up with about 5 other kids my age. We sat through some boring talks by old people and then one by one we were led out of this room by our Parents. I think I was second to last.

I had never watched a baptism before and didn’t have any idea what was going to happen other than I would be briefly putting my head under the water. I had done this at home in the bathtub and wasn’t worried about that part very much. Our Church building was a very old red brick, two story building with a large basement that was divided off into classrooms. The baptism font was in a corner room behind a door that was always locked.

When my turn came, I exuberantly went with my Dad to the baptismal room. It smelled like water and had a warm humidity that hung in the air. I couldn’t see the water, the front cement wall was higher than my head. I climbed the three gigantic plastered steps on one end and got my first glimpse of the water. My Dad was already standing there with the water up to his waist. I froze in terror, this water was way deeper than our bathtub at home.

My Dad motioned for me to go down the stairs and join him. I refused. When he reached for my arm, I instinctively put it behind me. He took a hold of my waistband and when I didn’t walk down the stairs he lifted me up and took two steps backwards and set me down. The water was indeed warm, and when my feet touched the bottom there was some short-lived relief. The water came up to my chest.

My Dad pivoted me and told me to hold my nose. I looked over at the other people watching and none of them were going to help me. They looked at me with amusement, almost seeming to enjoy watching my plight. My Dad said something and then Whoosh, I was under water. I can still remember hearing the sounds that being under water makes, kind of a bubbling sound in a hollow tube. Then I was pulled up and stood on my feet again. It was over and I was relieved.

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2. When I was around 12 years old I graduated from Junior Sunday School into adult regular Sunday School upstairs. This is when I discovered where all of my old friends had disappeared to and it was fun to see them again. On my first time in regular Sunday School the teacher pinned a note to my shirt for my Mom to see. I was oblivious to what was going on. My Mom informed me that next week I would be giving a 2-½ minute talk in sacrament meeting.

I’ve given talks in Junior Sunday school before. Basically you just stand there sullenly looking down at the pulpit while repeating the words that some lady behind you whispers for you to repeat. No problem. When you hear her say the word “amen”, it is all over and you can sit down again. Gawd I love that word.

In no time it was Sunday again and my Mom handed me a 3X5 card with some words written on it and told me to read it to her. I complied and read her the card thinking I had passed some test or something. She had me read it again and again, maybe 5 times, and then folded it in half and told me not to lose it. Off we went to Church where I was instructed to go sit by the man up front on the big bench. I knew this man, he was a nice man. He asked me if I had my talk and I showed him the folded card.

I was nervous as I sat there on that big bench and was starting to mentally fit the pieces together. Where was the lady who would stand behind me and whisper? Then it all came to me as clear as day. Somehow I was in a scary place. I took out the card and read the words to myself. They didn’t mean anything to me, just some words that I knew I would have to read out loud while standing up at the giant pulpit where lots and lots of people watched me. I was terrified, and there was no way out.

I watched the nice man as we sang some songs, someone prayed, someone brought the bread and water around, and someone talked about church stuff. After the man got done talking, he pushed a wooden box with his foot across the floor to the pulpit and then looked at me with that evil smirk that only a dragon slayer could possess. Yeah, you know that look. He smiled and motioned with his head to step up on the box and deliver my talk.

The bench I was sitting on was so big that my legs not only didn’t hang down, but stuck straight out and I had to scoot myself forward to exit the bench. I walked to the pulpit in total fright, climbed up onto the box, and looked out at all of the people. Holy Moely, I was struck dumb. The man behind me repositioned the microphone down to my level and sat down. I could feel death hanging in the air, if this isn’t pure terror, then I don’t know what is.

Somehow I managed to read the words on that card one by one into the microphone. Each word was a word all by itself and I’m sure that nothing made sense to anyone listening. When I came to the final word; Amen, I stepped down from that box and returned to my seat. Only then did I feel the sweet relief of having accomplished something traumatizing and now it was over with.

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3. When I reached the age of 19 I was destined to experience perhaps the hardest two years of my life. I did the interviews, got the letter from Salt Lake City, and received a copy of the six discussions that I was supposed to memorize. I can read, but remembering what I read doesn’t come easy for me. Memorizing, that’s impossible. I had six weeks to master this task. I started trying to remember something about Mr. Brown and how I had a message for him about Jesus Christ.

I knew I was going on a mission but was mostly clueless about what was actually going to transpire. The previously returned missionaries would only say, “it was the best two years of my life” and wouldn’t say anything more. I finally pinned one of them down and asked him to tell me what really happens out there. He looked at me and said, “you will find out” and refused to say anything more. Now I understand why he wouldn’t talk about it.

When the day finally arrived, my Family drove me to Salt Lake City to the mission home. There were perhaps 50 people on the sidewalk dropping off their missionaries. It was very crowded and chaotic. My Family left me there and I carried my suitcases into the building. The next three days are a blur, but mostly consisted of listening to important people talk and talk and talk.

As for the traumatic part, it came four days later when we were bused to the train station. My Family was informed that this is where they will say their goodbyes. The train platform was crowded and noisy. A whistle signaled for us to board the train. After a round of hugs and handshakes I climbed the steps and found a seat where I could see my Family out of the window.

It seemed to take forever, but the train lurched and started to move. I waved, they waved, and I watched them for as long as I could until they blended into the rest of the scenery, and then they were gone. My life anchor was gone. The only people who knew me were gone. I was profoundly alone now and coming to terms with that was more than I could handle. I sat back in my seat emotionally distraught. The train wheels made a clickety clack sound which increased in tempo and would continue for the next four days as we headed towards Chicago and then an airplane ride to Boston.

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There have been other traumatic events, but these three are probably the biggest ones I can remember. And, they all originated from the Mighty Mormon Church! They didn't need to happen, but they did.

I'm sure that you all have had traumatic events in your life. If you don't mind, could you share some of them?



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 11/06/2019 11:29AM by sunbeep.

Reminds me of the night I was leaving for the Mission Home. I went to see a neighbor who had just returned from his mission because I also wanted more information than "it was the best two years".

So I started asking questions and this great RM looked at me with a smirk and said, "If I had as long to go as you do I'd slit my wrists".

Maybe he didn't mean it literally but it wasn't long before I understood what he was saying.

My mom drove me up to the Old SLC mission home the first week of June, 1965. I checked in and got my room number. It was down in the basement. When I found the room, I went in and saw that there was only one double bed in the room, which was fine, since that’s what I slept in at home.

BUT, and it was a very big ‘but’: there was a big suitcase already siting at their foot of the bed. Upon closer inspection, I noticed a luggage tag, with Melvin T. Bowler printed on it.

No, no, no! Guys don’t sleep together in a double bed in mormonism!! That would be totally gay!! Not to mention that I was a spoiled brat, only child! No,no,no!

Well, yes,yes,yes... Elder Bowler and Elder OldDog spent a week honeymooning at the very chic SLC mission home. That first night was textbook traumatic, getting ready for bed and then crawling in between the sheets. I have no coherent memory as to how we chose which ‘my’ side of the bed was, but to this day, I sleep on the right side (as you face the bed) with that being the night that set that preference.

It wasn’t the first, but on one of the subsequent nights I woke up in the middle of the night to find Elder Bowler’s right arm draped across my chest and him cuddled up against my right side. Yeah, that just piled the trauma higher, deeper...

We survived the week with our virtues intact and great fully climbed into single beds down in the LTM...

Elder Bowler went on to be an AP, whereas I was a complete fuckup as a missionary. So now you know: pick the left side of the bed!!!

I know that as traumas go, that wasn’t particularly deep or searing, but at the time, it really made an impression!

I have plenty of traumatic events from mormonism. Baptism was scary to me. Being the center of attention was always horrible for me. The confirmation the next day was uncomfortable, too. All those big mens' hands on my head. I slumped down and I didn't close my eyes. I watched the audience.

Bishopric interviews. Did I masturbate? The only conclusion I could come up with with masturbation is that if you touched yourself at all in that area of your body even if you were taking a bath. (I didn't know much about sex and especially about WOMEN, which I was one of.) The worst. Especially when I had to deal with my situation with my gay boyfriend. Oh my hell! Temple definitely traumatic. SHOCKING. Just glad to have it over with. Baptisms for the dead.

The list goes on and on. Giving talks.

The day by brother got hit by a pickup on his bike. He was 5. I happened to look out the window at the time it happened. It was almost dark and there were sparks flying everywhere. It was a life experience I wouldn't wish on anyone including the entire lifetime after it happened as he still deals with the disabilities he has and he is in his 50s.

My husband leaving me. My husband telling me he is gay.



Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 11/06/2019 03:50PM by cl2.

Aaaccckkkkgghhh the cult is so...ICKY!!! Why did I EVER feel happy about being part of an organization that poisons families and rips down boundaries? Who can just toss their kid out in public to preach? Keep their son in a shoebox until he's 19, the magic number for chucking him into the world alone to sell a cult? Ick!!!

My parents weren't Mos, but one of my father's very good friends was, and he would often give us reading material and share Mo culture, and for a while we had this nonMo FHE sort of thing, compulsory family time where we played Scrabble or talked about big subjects like stranger danger, drugs, lying, whatever moral strictures seemed important at the time. It was always more lecture and interrogation than fun. My father never took the baptismal dunk but he really seemed to dig the message and wanted a captive audience to expound to, so from the time I was about four to age nine we did an amateur FHE most weeks.

When I was about seven, my sister had this Holly Hobby diary I thought was so incredibly cool. It had a lock and everything. You could wear the key on a little necklace that came with the package. It was irresistible little girl crack, so I begged my mom for one, and even though I wasn't really writing that well at the time and the pages were small, (5×7ish inches), she bought one for me. She knew I just wanted to be like my big sister and the idea that I could have something secret seemed neat. So when she gave it to me, one of the first things I wrote was a big secret, how much I hated my father. Wow, didn't that feel good, to be able to say that? I wrote all sorts of angry stuff, and even though I didn't know the word 'cathartic' at seven, that's what it was. I wrote almost every day for probably a month, and since I wrote larger than the lines, I was filling a lot of pages.

At our heathen FHE one night, my father arrived at the dinner table with a Holly Hobby diary in hand. My sister and I both froze. The diaries looked exactly the same, neither of us knew whose it was. I remember thinking, "but I LOCKED it!!!" ALL I could think of was the bad stuff I'd written about him. You didn't say that in my house, ever. You never even let your facial expression show disapproval towards him. And at seven years old, I knew what I'd done was foolishly dangerous. I'd already been belted for small infractions. I thought if he saw the crap I'd spewed about him in that diary, I might end up dead.

It turns out my sister was the intended victim. He demonstrated how, with a pin, you could pop the little lock right open, rendering the key useless, and then he proceeded to read some of the most ordinary 9-year-old kid thoughts you've ever heard. "I want a pony! I will call her Butterscotch and ride her every day! Math is so boring. Lori is my best best friend and when we grow up I want to live next door to her."

Nothing came out remotely like what I'd written, no older child's narrative about how we were living with an evil man, no confessions of misbehavior he always insisted we were up to, nothing but innocent kid stuff. But my sister was so mortified that her private thoughts were being read out in front of the whole family that she just slumped half off her chair, bright red in the face, just shaking. I reached for her hand but she slapped it away. Later, she said, "I wish it was you."

The second that "FHE" was over, I disappeared into my room and ripped every page out of my diary I'd written on. But what to do with the dangerous pages? If I tore them up Mom might see the pieces, and I'd get in trouble for mistreating my things. So I crept into the kitchen and found Mom's little stapler and clicked all the pages together all around the border. Then I was too afraid to throw them out, he might see the bundle in the trash. So I ended up hiding them under my mattress until my parents went to work, and disposed of them by taking out the middle drawer of my dresser and duct taping the bundle to the back side of it. I hid it so well I forgot its existence, but I never forgot the lesson, and I never wrote anything, anywhere, that indicated how I really felt about my father.

So there the bundle stayed, I kid you not, for 20 years. I kept that dresser the whole time. Finally as a married woman with kids of my own, I took the drawers out of the dresser so I could move it by myself, and happened to find the bundle. I opened it up and pried out the staples. Duct tape is a great preservative, everything was in perfect condition. There, in barely legible child scrawl, I read such gems as, "Sometimes I like my dad and sometimes I don't...Dad is a butt, a big smelly butt...Dad's so lazy and makes me do everything, I don't want to always change the TV channel...I hate dad, he's always mad, he is a mean poop. Poop poop poop." I laughed at my little self's idea of hardcore venting. If I was going to risk my skin like that, I should've gone big with a death curse.

I still don't keep a diary.

Mormonism is a destructive, narcissistic, child traumatizing cult. My father was never officially a member, but plenty of cult practices infected our family, empowering a sociopath. His personality disorder and the cult went together like apple pie and ice cream. I can't imagine what my life might've been like if I was BIC and my heart goes out to all of you who were.

When I was 13, my older cousin gave me a beautiful diary, bound in white leather, with a golden lock and little key.

I was in junior high at the time, usually going at it tooth and nail with my mother about EVERYTHING. And a lot of that material was in my diary. I never really loved my mother and I am fairly certain that this was mutual. We both tried to come across as fond of each other, but it wasn't real.

Every New Year's Day, I would make a list of my "Favorites" and my "Hateds." One year, my algebra teacher appeared on the "Hated" list. My mother was a frequent flyer there. My lifelong best friend was usually on the "Favorites" list.

I kept that teenage diary until well into adulthood, but lived with the fear that my kids would somehow get into it (the key was itself locked up somewhere else, but still. . .) It had my name engraved on the cover, but my name had changed since then, so one day, I just threw it in the outgoing trash.

I'm not sorry I got rid of it. There was a month-long description of my father's terminal illness, death, and funeral. Some entries had to do with school - some good, some not so good. I can remember detailing my mother's incessant nagging about my grades in math class. I warned her that if she didn't back off, I was going to deliberately do worse, and I did. I went from a B- minus student to a D- minus level. She backed off, and I managed to scrape by the remaining required math classes.

Losses, despair, teenage angst - they were all there. A diary can be a wonderful place to vent, if you don't have any other way to articulate your experiences.

Imagine being born in a pit and having no clue how to get out or if there was even a way out, and if you even attempted to get out there would be insane resistance and gaslighting. Anyone that tried to escape it was seen as a crazy mentally ill person. Thats one way to describe being BIC. I could never escape that damn religion except when i went to public school there would be some sanity and normality. I liked public school for this reason. Everyone seemed to follow the mormon program except for me. I was the exile. Even when i really tried to understand the whole thing i still didn't understand it. Its like all the narcissists gathered together in that operation and destroyed everyone around them. Cold and heartless people. They have no true empathy for anybody. They just want your mind and especially your money. I feel like my family is in a nazi prison camp, and i will probably never see them again.

You are making memories come back to my mind right now. Thank you for sharing that. My baptism at 8 years old is actually blocked out mostly from my memory but i do remember being very suicidal for the first time a few days after the baptism. They would say over and over that if you die after your baptism you are golden in the afterlife because you have no sins and are technically clean and perfect. So my suicidal nature started at 8 years old. In that religion as you know they praise the dead and are obsessed with the dead. I wanted that praise because i felt ignored and invisible for the most part. If i died i would get respect finally i felt because to me it is a death cult. All they talk about is saving the dead people constantly and getting to the celestial kingdom after you die. The focus was never here and now on this planet it was always talking about the hereafter constantly. It was hell to be around these people. I saw them as screwed up and they saw me as screwed up because i didn't follow the program. After events of physical abuse and physucal assault i just said fuck this life and fuck god. Fuck the entire thing and they did not like that i did not fall in line with evertone else anymore. I did not go on a mission and i was seen as the biggest piece of shit and failure to everybody because i did not go. No one would date me in the religion because of the not going on a mission. It was a very lonely and hopeless time in my life. I still could not believe that they believed the whole thing without investigating any of it and that pissed me off. My entire life pisses me off when i think about it. I totally got fucked over. I was not ready or prepared to engage a cult and a cult family at a young age. I was literally confused the entire time with their rituals and behavior. Trying to force this bullshit into my head and then calling me crazy for not falling for it. I just wanted to use my damn brain. They don't let you use your damn brain. They want to control you and have you be dependant on the organization so it is harder to leave and be successful outside if it. Its fucked up tactics. One day i will be my real and complete self. They tried to destroy me and make me give up but i have not given up. Things can be good again i hope.

You didn't give up. Even when you were right in the thick of it, you didn't give up.

Neither did catnip or cl2. Or me. Or so many others I've been talking to and reading about this week.

All these traumatic experiences we are sharing..stories of feeling small, hurt, vulnerable, afraid, alone. All connected, in various ways, to one very messed up cult dogma. We thought we were the only one. We didn't know at the time that we were being subjected to a sadly common behavioral pattern. We had no idea how things were going to turn out, but here we are, exmos in an online community. We didn't give up.

We are all stronger than we give ourselves credit for.

Piggy-backing off of your experiences -

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I was excited and looked forward to getting baptized like all of my friends when I was 8 years old. I loved the big font, warm water, and I wanted to stick around and swim a bit.

Nine years later I went to the temple with the Young Men to be baptized for the dead. I was a little over six-feet tall. The font to me looked small and the guy dunking me was short. The first time he put me under I could feel a muscle pull in my back. He continued dunking (drowning) me 97 more times…each time with pain shooting in my back. When I got out I limped to the shower, turned it on as hard and hot as I could get it, and just let the steaming water pound me. I must have been in there a bit too long as someone was sent to fetch me so they could do the confirmations. A part of me thinks they thought I was masturbating.

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I too had to give a 2 1/2 minute talk when I was very young. I had never spoken in front of people before. My mother too provided index cards for me…only I was not allowed to use them. She forced me to MEMORIZE the talk she had written. When I had difficulty memorizing, she would help by beating it into me.

When my time came and I stood at the podium, I was terrified. My mind kind of jumbled up and I struggled to remember my talk. I cried, said what I could remember, and sat down. Perhaps the members thought I cried because I was “moved” by the spirit. After church I was beaten again for fucking up my talk.

———————————————

Upon entering the MTC I succumbed to the pressure of “If there is anything you haven’t repented of, you had better do so now or you won’t be able to learn the language, won’t have the spirit with you, blah, blah, blah.”

So, I did the “MTC Repentance” thing. My MTC Bishop kicked me upstairs to talk with the MTC Prez. The process was drawn out over a week or two and in the end the MTC Prez and a G.A. pissed me off to the point of me calling them “Sons of Bitches” and walking out. I was there five weeks.

On my plane ride home I had no idea if a family member would be at the airport to pick me up. My father did show up. There was no pat on the back or hug. Instead he extended his hand to shake and said “You look good…I can’t say I am glad to see you”. Once in the car he screamed at me for the entire 30 minute ride home. I had left the MTC and entered a whole new type of HELL. That will be 43 years ago next month. I remember it like it was yesterday.

Whatever else your parents and family and congregation did--you DID THE RIGHT THING.

When I saw my disabled brother come off the plane from his mission, he was a broken person. He had gone out with a good self-esteem as he had good friends (who he still has) who treated him well even if he is disabled. He was a MESS. He's never fully recovered and he is 54. When I saw him, I had a 2-year-old son and I started telling my son that day that he would NEVER serve a mission. My son recently told me that when they'd sing I hope they call me on a mission in primary that he was able to think, "I'm so glad I don't have to go."

I Googled your name and spent an hour reading comments that followed a post. You are as useful as a kickstand, and as memorable as sneeze in a recording studio.

http://jamaica-gleaner.com/gleaner/20150126/cleisure/cleisure4.html

1.) Being injected with speed by my mother (who worked as a licensed nurse at the time) and then being sexually molested by my own mother and her boyfriend for the next few hours afterward, at a young age
2.) Having the first woman I fell in love with, suddenly go from appearing to love me to breaking up with me and then her having sex with my friends (from church) and neighbors on the other side of my bedroom wall where she had moved to a few months earlier, to be with me.
3.) Experiencing injustices and mis-treatment, from other church members and church leaders (several of them), followed by my leaving the church (formally resigning) without having a clue at the time about how I would adjust, survive, and be a good person while doing it. It was like I reverted to being a child at the time, unable to know how to deal with an adult life at age 28, a big crash on all levels.

My therapist last year said "...and you're an Engineer who owns a home and has a stable relationship?", like she found it impossible for me to be this same person.

We are amazingly functional. I am continually astonished at how durable human beings can be. Everything we have achieved in spite of our trauma baggage is just so cool to me. Every bit of normalcy we create for our loved ones is a gift we give because we want them to never go through what we did, and we are heroes for breaking the cycle as much as we do.

I think maybe the childhood adversity conditions us to be very tough, very fast. After all, when you were put through hell early on, a lot of other stuff seems easy. I had a boss once who was the bully type and liked to yell. My coworkers were scared by the sight of her, and warned me from day one to make sure I stayed on her good side. The day of course came when she got in my face with her meanie voice and her pink twin set and cute little pearls on, and all I could see in my mind was a yippy doggie barking my name. I started to laugh. I tried biting my tongue but I couldn't stop snickering. Unfortunately my coworkers thought that was creepy. I couldn't explain to them that Big Bad Yappy Jane had nothing on my old man's shark eyes. Was that all she'd got, really? What a little plastic wind up toy.

The rest of life, with the exception of my very bothersome TBM MIL, really hasn't been that hard. Yet I'm permanently hobbled by the past. The big struggle is still surviving my father. That is why I'm in therapy, why I take meds for chronic health problems, why I don't sleep well. What would my life have been like, I wonder, if I hadn't had the abuse?

I can totally relate to your post ptbarnum. After what happened to me in my childhood (most of which I haven't written about here yet) nothing scares me in professional settings. Put me in an emergency situation and while everyone else is trembling in fear and uncertainty and no one knows how to react, and that's my comfort zone. No emergency at work can compete with my childhood traumas. Put me in a day to day duldrom where everything is business as usual and nothing is going wrong, and I really struggle sometimes.

When I was a child, my mother literally brought some career criminals in to our home. They lived with us and molested myself and my siblings while they went out at night to commit terrible crimes. Then we all went on a cross-country run-and-hide, to escape pursuit from the FBI. That chase went from Seattle to Florida and back, ending in Spokane, where all of the arrests took place. I didn't see my father for a few years then, until after we were caught. My siblings and I saw these criminals brag about murders they had committed and they threatened us with murder. I didn't realize then, that my siblings and I were the live-in hostages if the need for them ever arose. Nothing your boss at work can say, comes anywhere close to that, and even if it did, it wouldn't shake me up so much.

After these events, I thought the church would be a safe place to live my life in. I was wrong in that assumption. The only thing that would shake me up after that kind of childhood and after joining the church, was to experience blatant institutional ecclesiastical dysfunction and abuse, all done supposedly under their so-called "power and authority to act in the name of god". So leaving the church at age twenty-eight was my final graduation in to adulthood. Only fifteen years after resigning from the church, did I even start to look back at all of the childhood trauma and how it affects me as an adult. At work, I am friendly and socially connected. I am not very high in management. But I think that I unintentionally intimidate some people. I don't buy-in to group-think (probably ever). No one in management ever intimidates me. Although I respect authority there appropriately, I qualify every situation with my own thought processes and that, combined with a lack of fear, makes some people uncomfortable.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 11/08/2019 07:05AM by azsteve.

These are all great stories. I was molested by a man and the guy walked. I wish someone would have taken me seriously when it happened. Because of that, I have never been taken serious about much of anything. My borders have been crossed more times than I can count. My life has been a huge disappointment. People say that it will change, but in all honesty, I am broken and with for death upon myself. Not suicide, just to die and end this horrible existence. It never gets better.

Hashtag: me too. I was molested. I wasn't believed. In my family of origin I am the one considered the liar and flake, even though I'm the only one without a personality disorder. Somedays, I just feel so tired, body and mind. Tired to the tip of every neuron.

I'm sorry you feel that way, like you're "doing time" almost. I struggle with a nihilistic mindset at times, I think I get what you mean. I hope it gets better for you. I try really hard to find the ways that I can make my local spacetime pleasant for myself and others. Nothing wrong with trying to pass the time as pleasantly as possible, right?

FWIW, I believe you. I can't give you justice, but I can at least hear you. If the internet wasn't a thing, I'm not sure what I'd do with my pent up baggage. Posting online and hearing others' struggles makes me feel like I'm not a freak and is quite helpful.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 11/07/2019 10:58AM by ptbarnum.

Thank you.

"The only possible explanation for why the sun is setting an hour earlier today than it did five days ago is sorcery."

The season/time change is driving me nuts this year, so much I want to move back to AZ, just to be done with this "daylight savings" claptrap. One of the only things AZ does right imho.

Thanks everyone for sharing your experiences. I makes what I had experienced within TSCC seem so trivial. I've had traumatic experiences, but they were outside of TSCC.

At twelve, my mother went missing while heading to Queens, New York. Her remains would be found a year later in Jacksonville, North Carolina. Right off of I-17. Her remains wouldn't be identified until earlier this year.
At eighteen, I was sexually molested by a few classmates, but they turned the story around and made it sound as though I was a ready and willing participant. Random guys would approach me stating that they'd want to come over to my house (or have me come over to theirs) and "get it on." I would say, "I'm sorry, I'm not that kind of girl." to which they would reply, "That's not what I heard!"
At twenty-six, I would have a cerebral hemorrhage that would leave me with a few disabilities. It had taken years for me to adjust to the new me. That's just some of it, but it was all outside of TSCC.


Now within TSCC I did have a stalker. He was a NeverMo, but knew that I was a Mormon. We worked in the same town (but a good ten miles away from each other) and had taken the same bus to get to get home (mind you, not in the same community). Eventually, I would get uncomfortable vibes with regards to him. It would begin with lewd comments (on his side). I'm not trying to act like a "prude" but for me, it was inappropriate for him to say the things that he had said to me. I would call him out on that, and I would tell him that I'm not interested in him. At all. But he was relentless.
A few months later, the lease in the apartment that I was renting was coming to an end, and I would find a place in another neighbourhood which wouldn't begin a full month after my lease for the former had ended. My friend who lived in another town (miles away from the one I was living in) would allow for me to stay with her, so I felt that I had lucked out, hopeful that I wouldn't see this man again.
Three weeks into staying with my friend, I would receive a call from the missionaries in the ward (which I hadn't attended in those three weeks, like I said, I was in another town) telling me that my "friend" (I'll just refer to him as "GG") had reached out to them and is interested in taking the lessons. My heart had sank, because I thought that I was free of him.
A couple of months after I moved into my new place, "GG" began attending the ward and was starting to get close to the woman that I was the closest to (she was like a mother to me), and she would put ideas in his head that she would hook me up with him. Eventually I would call her and tell her that I'm not interested in ANY way, and that he had been stalking me for a number of months. She would agree that he did have an unhealthy obsession with me.
I would go to the then bishop and tell him about "GG" but the bishop didn't take me seriously, much to my chagrin. I had to endure a couple more months of this (and phone harassment from GG), until I decided to go to the local police. The police would call "GG" and "GG" would have a conniption denying everything, claiming that he never followed me...Which he did. He would track my coworker's car (he had a rare model) from when my coworker had dropped me off at the bus stop to see where I worked. He would follow me to the local laundromat, claiming that "God" told him where to find me. Heck, he called the missionaries feigning interest in TSCC in order to track me down!
It wasn't until after I had went to the police that my bishop had taken me seriously. Of course, "GG" would pretend to be a victim, claiming that I'm out to ruin "his good name", but he had done that all on his own. This is just a fraction of what my stalker had put me through. There was gas-lighting involved. And he tried to join the church, thinking that it would get me to marry him (or that he could get the "priesthood higher-ups" to get me to marry him, as in his mind, women are subservient to the men there). It wasn't until I would get a job in another location, moved AGAIN, and changed my number that the stalking would cease.
In hindsight, I probably wasn't in any serious danger when it came to him (even though him telling me that he was going to marry me and going to great lengths to make it happen was disturbing), the man was creepy and had a few screws loose. And it just seemed that his goal was to dominate me. Apparently I wasn't the first twenty-something that he persuaded - I was twenty-seven at the time, he was forty-seven. It was probably about control with him.

That's probably it when it comes to traumatic experiences in TSCC. I wasn't a part of it for long; I converted at twenty-two and left at thirty-four. Though, finding out the truth about it was a bit traumatic, since I had given up a lot to join, and believed that it was true and rearranged by life for that "truth." Going through all of it, just to have the rug ripped out from under me was hurtful.

Severedpuppetstrings, I am so sorry that happened to your mom. I can't imagine the grief that you must have experienced as a twelve-year-old. So very sorry.

I'm messed up and I don't want overwhelm the board with my troubles. I've made a list and why I failed as a mormon.

Prayers

Mormons loved prayers and praying in front of others. I did not; I often spaced out. I said it in the wrong order, didn't say the thy words or blessed the dead profit. I was teased for my lisp and speech impediment. One primary teacher forced me to pray 3 times in a row. A lot of times I didn't feel like praying.

Scriptures

I didn't own my personal set. My Mom made me check out a set every week when I was baptized. I often lost them and wasn't very good at explaining why I was irresponsible. Kids would hide them in the room or throw them in the wastebasket. It lead to a lot of grief and physical abuse. My Mom splurged and bought my personal set of scriptures at the age of 12. They were stolen during sacrament meeting. Who the hell would want scriptures with my name on them?

Interviews

The interviews made me nervous and I'm a terrible liar. I had bishops and church leaders that took notes. I really couldn't remember what I had told them and that made me evil, in need of repentance. To this day, I feel uncomfortable in an interview setting (even at work).

Temples

It was supposed to be the GREATEST place on Earth, yet I loathed to go. I've written extensively about my experiences as a youth and adult. I often blamed myself for not feeling anything uplifting in the so called house of god.

Mission

I never should have gone on one. Like everything else that was so wonderful about the church, it did not work for me. It started with a companion that did his own thing- went alone everywhere. I'm the one that was blamed "Elder Goop, you need to be understanding of others." Huh?

I witnessed my MTC teacher sexually assaulted and the church cover up. I made the mission president's shit list early on. I was told that I was unloved and unworthy of blessings. I had no idea how to deal with a companion who locked himself in the bedroom for a day. Throw in the fact that I witnessed a lot of aggression and physical violence among missionaries.

I was an introvert and ill-suited to be an in-your-face type of salesman.

When I was four, we had a very big house where Mom and Pop hosted annual company parties. My sister and I were put to bed after everyone got to gush over the little twins and before the liquor came out.

We woke up in the front seat of a car speeding down dirt roads at night in the snow. We stood on the bench seat, our eyes fixed forward, our thin little arms hooked over the back, holding on as mightily as four-year-olds can. “Tommy" from Pop's crew had taken us out of our beds, one in each arm, and out the front door of our big house. He asked over and over if we were scared. We never answered. Our mouths were clenched shut. Not a scream. We dug our bare toes into the bench seat. Tommy kept up with his maniacal demand, “Are you scared?” while we skidded sideways and spun in circles. Pine branches slapped the windshield of Tommy's out-of-control car. It was all slow motion. I remember seeing the blue piping on my sister’s pajamas and her black hair flying in every direction. All we could hear was squealing and roaring and Tommy's cackle. Finally, Tommy was so drunk and lost that he ended up back in our front yard with the car on its side. Uncle Pete was the first person I saw. His eyes fixed on Tommy as if he were looking though sights of a gun. He reached past me and levied a massive crunch with his only arm. Women were crying “Oh, my God!” The party ended early. We were hustled back to our beds. Our family never talked about this event. Our parents never drank again. A few years ago, I called my older brother and asked him if he remembered this, or if it was some fevered dream. He said yes, he remembered, it was no dream. That was all.

To this day, I am phobic of being kidnapped. I can’t watch those movies where someone is abducted. I have a “Find Friends” app on my phone, where I know where my children are at every moment, even though they are middle-aged men.

That is terrible, Kathleen. It sounds like the whole thing was just swept under the rug? Did anyone ask you if you'd been hurt in the wreck?

Thank you for sharing your story.

Yep!!! that's my life A TRAUMATIC EVENT