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Growing up, I often found myself bowing my head for family dinners, dressing up for church on Sundays, and reciting my prayers nightly. It wasn’t until my teenage years that I began to explore a deeper, personal spirituality.
My mother and I discovered what we later called our “home church” when I was a freshman in high school. The atmosphere was relaxed, the congregation felt genuine, and the worship team sang songs that were engaging rather than the usual hymns. However, what truly captivated us was the pastor’s ability to deliver a message that felt personal and impactful, as if each sermon was crafted just for us.
The sense of community in that church was special — the kind of place where someone would notice if you looked cold and invite you in without needing to say a word. It was the warmth of a grandmother’s hug during tough times, that comforting feeling of being at home, often described as the “warm fuzzies.”
As time passed and our church grew, the services began to take on a more charismatic tone. Discussions about the gifts of the Holy Spirit, such as speaking in tongues and healing, became common. While not every service was like this, witnessing someone “falling out” in the Spirit during altar calls became a more frequent occurrence. For those unfamiliar, this refers to someone fainting due to the perceived overwhelming presence of the Holy Spirit.
Doubts about the authenticity of these spiritual gifts led to a sense of hierarchy within the church; if you weren’t baptized in the Holy Spirit or didn’t possess a divine gift, you felt left out. My involvement in the church deepened, often spending nearly every day there, and I was embraced by church leaders, which provided a sense of belonging for a kid facing life’s challenges. When they asked if I was ready to be baptized in the Holy Spirit, it felt like an honor.
I sensed a pressure to demonstrate my spirituality by speaking in tongues. The leaders assured me that it could happen in fragments, but it felt less like a divine experience and more like a performance. I fumbled through some gibberish, while everyone around me claimed to feel a powerful presence—yet I felt nothing.
As I grew older, the “golden child” image faded. I began to experiment with drugs and alcohol, developed an eating disorder, and faced bullying at school. I was tormented daily, followed to classes, and subjected to name-calling, which should have warranted serious mental health support. However, the church viewed it as a spiritual issue, attributing my struggles to a failure of faith.
My mother desperately sought a better environment for me, hoping to transfer to a private school despite our financial struggles. One day, the pastor claimed he had arranged for two “black suit” gentlemen to sponsor my tuition, making it sound like he had orchestrated everything. We were overwhelmed with gratitude, but it wasn’t until much later that I discovered the truth: those gentlemen were my uncles, who had no connection to the pastor.
This deceptive act should have prompted us to leave the church, but we stayed. The leaders shaped the narrative to maintain their image as the benevolent ones in the situation. Tensions escalated when the new school failed to resolve my issues. My mother faced pressure and judgment from church leaders regarding my upbringing, and they often prayed over me with fervent pleas to “rebuke Satan.”
After my first stint in rehab, where the spiritual remedies didn’t work, the pastor ominously warned me, “If you leave this rehab before you are ready, I will hunt you down.” Such comments seemed far from Christ-like. When I returned to church looking disheveled post-rehab, my mentors claimed they could see my downward spiral based on my appearance alone, asserting they knew me better than I knew myself.
The people who called themselves my mentors repeatedly questioned my salvation because they didn’t see me manifesting the “fruits of the spirit” during my struggles. To them, my depression was a spiritual battle, and they believed I was allowing Satan to win. For a child raised in the church, this perception deeply affected me.
As an adult, I began to recognize the toxic dynamics of these relationships. When I started thinking for myself, some leaders blocked me on social media, treating me as if I were a pariah. The trauma I experienced didn’t vanish overnight; I still hold complicated feelings toward those who wronged me, sometimes missing them despite their hurtful actions. Now, as an adult, I feel disgusted by how they treated me as a child.
I’m still working to unpack and re-evaluate the beliefs instilled in me by church leaders. I’ve had to reshape my views on purity culture, recognize that being gay is not a sin, and confront the lingering fear of hell that still haunts me today. It’s evident that the values of the divine I was taught don’t align with my own understanding.
I would never treat a child the way they treated me. I had a mental illness, yet my struggles only fed their savior complex. I wish they had seen me for who I was—a child in need, not merely a project for their spiritual enlightenment.
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Summary:
The author shares a personal account of their experiences with church trauma, highlighting the initial comfort of community and spirituality that transformed into pressure, manipulation, and emotional distress. They discuss the pressure to conform to spiritual expectations, the impact of mental health struggles, and the complexities of relationships with church leaders. The narrative emphasizes the need for understanding and support rather than a savior mentality, ultimately leading to a journey of self-discovery and healing.