Growing up always fearful for your well-being isn’t fun. There are different ways you can react to this environment. Some, like my brother Alex, didn’t take all the shit that’s coming their way and let it be known that what’s going on, and the way they are being treated, is bullshit. This can cause a lot of pain in the moment, but doesn’t make you anyone’s…how shall I put it nicely…well, it doesn’t make you feel as used and abused.

Others, like myself, just take it and hold things inside as a way to get by. Handling such enourmous stress and conflict isn’t fun, and it can be easier in many ways to just take it and deal with all the shit that comes your way. Watching Trump’s administration reminded me a lot of my childhood and the people around my father. Doing and/or saying nothing is in many ways less painful in the moment, but the long-term reprucussions are worse.

I’ve learned this and still struggle with it.

People have said I’m patient. You would have to be growing up in my family. But it goes beyond patience, and almost borders on masochism. How much abuse are you willing to take before you let out all of your anger, frustration, and despair?

I am patient, though, and it is because of how I grew up and probably my personality. And my choice to just take it and try and let it go. But what I’ve found is, it isn’t always possible to really let it go, and it can come and bite you in the ass at the worst possible time.

All of the anger, self-loathing, sadness, and disappointment will break through sometime. In my life, there have been a few times this has happened and it’s never actually been at the right time. I should have took this out on my father and those enabling him when I had the chance, not on my friend who didn’t want to drink with me until 3 in the morning.

That’s what happened, though, on a few occassions in my life I can luckily still count on one hand. Something would happen to me that I have a right to be upset about. Someone stole my shoes at a bar. My landlord never fixed something that broke in my apartment after they said they would. My friend said they would stay out with me on my birthday and didn’t.

All reasons to be disappointed, but not reasons to let my past surface and say things I would regret. Essentially, I was wronged and had a right to be upset, but my poor response led to me being the one apologizing. I can now recognize that it wasn’t the specific instance that led to my response, but it was because of a lifetime of holding things in and dealing with stuff I shouldn’t have had to deal with. Especially not as a 9-year old kid. But I did, and I held the frustration and anger inside, and it came out at the wrong time decades later.

I haven’t overcome this completely, but I am aware of it and try to do better. I need to pick and choose when I can be justified in the wrath I express, and when it is simply a manifestation of decades of abuse. It’s not easy, but I’m learning and trying.

If I could go back and tell my 9-year old self to get angry at the abuse I endured - to follow my brother’s example - I would. But I can’t, and now I have to live with the effects.

“Where did you get that coke?” My father suddenly asked me as I was standing to the side of the sliding door waiting to hop in the van.

“I bought it at the front desk,” I replied.

“That’s your mother’s Coke, isn’t it?” I glanced over and saw my mother, who was obviously thirsty and, like me, not enjoying the heat.

“No, I bought this at the front desk,” I retorted, making sure to say it respectfully.

“Show me the receipt.”

“I didn’t receive a receipt, but you can ask the front desk clerk.”

“Stop lying, Ethan, that’s your mother’s Coke. She had it right here, went to the bathroom, came back and it was gone. Now you have a Coke bottle. Why did you take it?”

“I didn’t!”

“Then where is your mother’s Coke?”

“I don’t know, but I didn’t take it. This is a Coke I bought. Ask Alex, he saw me with it.”

I didn’t want to drag Alex into anything, but at this point I was getting really annoyed. My entire life to that point, my father was never wrong. Even if he was, he would never admit it. It was always someone else’s mistake. Someone else’s fault. Someone who was lying. Even if proof were presented to him, it would be ignored. He was right. End of story.

After 17 years of this, annoyed at lugging heavy suitcases from Idaho to Equador, and uncomfortable with the relentless sweating, I had had enough. I decided I was going to stand my ground this time.

“Sorry Ethan, I didn’t notice you with a Coke bottle when I came down,” Alex interjected. He probably didn’t notice but even if he did, we both knew that if we both got involved we would then both suffer the consequences. I decided not to dwell on it.

“Maybe Alex didn’t see me, but this is my Coke. I bought it and didn’t steal Mom’s Coke,” I said, my voice shaking and struggling to stay steady. It took all my strength to refrain from yelling.

“How could you lie straight to my face so easily?! And when we are here on a missionary trip, on our way to a church to spread the message?! How could you have such evil inside you?! Confess now and we can take the evil out of this group! Confess now and you can be forgiven!”

These might not be the exact words my father said, but they are not far off. It might seem a little excessive and melodramatic, but my father was like that. By the time I was 16 I was disowned more times than I could remember.

I was told I had the devil inside me, made to stand up in front of our church and confess things that I did not do, and was called Cane (from the biblical Cane and Abel story) on many occasions. My father had a habit of yelling and degrading you so much that it would wear you down until you eventually gave in to his demands.

I’ve tried for the past two decades to write down my story, and I’ve always tried to do it chronologically. I would get through 50 or so pages and then get stuck, trying to remember the exact pieces of the next part of the puzzle.

This never worked well because I always ended up stopping. Looking over my past work, I’ve started and stopped so many times and have the same thing written - but in a different style - throughout these documents that I realized it’s never worked.

Finally I’ve decided to do something different.

Instead of start to finish, I’ll write snippets. Small pieces of my story that I hope will be interesting, can be digested quickly, and might help someone else who is stuck in a cult, is in the process of escaping, or has already left and is trying to figure out what to do.

Hopefully this new format will be easier to write, read, and help me gather my thoughts and emotions as I take this journey down a past that should not be forgotten.