Cult of None

Absence

Fri, 30 Apr 2021 18:15:00 -0500

It had been over two months since I talked to my father. Thinking about it back then, it marked the longest I’d gone without talking to him since he was in prison.

It was refreshing and felt liberating.

Being a father myself, I hope my own son never feels that way about not talking to me. But I will never treat him the way my father treated me.

The longer I we t without speaking to him, the freer I felt. My father beat into us kids - literally and figuratively - that listening to him and pleasing him was all that mattered. This led to an odd and strange sense of obligation for me. I don’t think my siblings felt the same. Maybe they did, but we all had such different experiences. Even though I knew logically all he brought me was misery, I still felt some strange feeling of obligation to my father. This meant I would continue to talk to him and have him in my life.

Shortly after I first left, it was much more than that. I was almost afraid of not receiving his approval, even though I had left his church and no longer lived in his house. It caused me to make many decisions I ended up regretting. The choices I made weren’t about what I wanted, but we’re about what I felt would make my father happy.

No, scratch that, I knew he wouldn’t be happy no matter what I did. But maybe he wouldn’t berate me and make me feel even more worthless than I felt almost every day of my childhood.

My father always taught us to think of other people first. But when he taught us this, it wasn’t because he was trying to instill in his children noble values. It was because he wanted us to think of him first and put him ahead of everything else. After all, he was a prophet and spoke to God himself. Putting our father first was therefore the same as putting God first, which was the most honorable and Christian thing to do.

Or so we were teaight and led to believe.

But it was all lies. It was all to give my father control over us. And that control remained in many ways for years after I left.

I once tried talking to a therapist about my past. After hearing my story, he said that he believed deep down I still had the desire that everyone naturally has to please their parents. For most people this is fine. But for me, he said, it was causing me pain and said I should find a way to release myself from this in terms of my father.

At the time, I don’t really think I believed that was the case. Even years after leaving I was still encumbered by this lurking shadow, but I felt I freed myself from it years prior.

Yet, looking back on it, after I was able to stop speaking to my father, I realized that perhaps there still was some vestige of these feelings left deep inside that caused me to still have a relationship with someone who brought nothing good to my life and was only destructive.

It wasn’t as pronounced or harmful to my life as it once was, but it was still there, even if just a little. It’s why I still put up with the craziness that was always around my father.

As time went on, and the further my father was from me, the clearer I could see.

From the Outside

Wed, 28 Apr 2021 09:56:15 -0500

If you were just looking from the outside, at the height of my father’s success it probably seemed like we were well-off. We had a huge house with nine bedrooms, four cars, two airplanes, and all sorts of modern early 1990s luxuries.

I use the term success loosely, however, because it was all about appearances and not real success or stability. Sure, my father drove around in his Mercedes and flew in his airplane, but he was on the brink of losing everything at any moment. For my entire childhood.

One thing he would do was buy us kids a lot of gifts for Christmas. Looking back on it now that I am older and wiser, I realize this was more a combination of compensation and selfishness than it was about making his children happy.

The compensation was for all of those times he was never there as a father. Never there as his children needed him.

The selfishness is equally as simple: knowing my father, he probably just wanted to make himself feel better and also wanted his kids to think he was a wonderful father because he bought them a bunch of stuff with money he actually didn’t have.

One year, he decided to take one of his missionary trips to Africa. He had been to Namibia a number of times and was going again. My mother also went and they decided to go over the Christmas and New Year period. Some church members lived in our house with us, and they would manage things and watch us kids while my parents were away. We were always happy, to be honest, because any time away from our father made our life easier.

My father always loved Christmas, but not enough to cancel his trip and spend it with his family. He didn’t want to miss out, though, on all of the Christmas festivies. Instead of having an early celebration, he decided to make the family wait until my parents returned in the second week of January. But he wanted to make sure that the tree was full of presents.

Being only 8 years old at the time, I was conflicted. I was happy my father would be away, but it also felt like cruel torture to see all those presents sitting under the tree for weeks and weeks. We couldn’t touch them, and if we did anything wrong while my parents were away, we wouldn’t get to open them when they returned.

You may be thinking - what’s the big deal? We were lucky enough to have a roof over our head and presents under the tree, so why should you complaing?

You’re right, it’s not a big deal, but I provide this as an example about what I felt was true at the time but couldn’d express, and so clearly realized was true when I became older: my father never really cared for others and his actions were only to benefit himself.

He could have celebrated Christmas with his family before he left. But he didn’t want to. He wanted to make everyone wait for him, so he could have the celebration that he wanted to have on his own terms, regardless of what his family thought or felt.

From small and mundane things to big decisions, my father’s first thought was always himself.

A Friend Vists

Wed, 28 Apr 2021 09:56:00 -0500

Immediately after stepping through the door Ben knew something was off.

Even though it was mid-summer it was only in the 70s outside but inside Ben was met with a rush of cold air. It was like being instantly transported to the middle of a harsh Minnesota winter. Just breathing the cold air can sting your lungs.

“What’s with the temperature?” Ben asked.

“Oh, ah, well, you see, my dad he…”

Before I could get another word in my younger sister came down the steps, which were just in front of the entrance of our house. She was wearing a sweater, but that wasn’t the weirdest thing Ben saw.

Her sweater was emblazoned with the words “Slave #5” on the front. She was only 7 years old, but she was already made aware of her place in the house and family.

Ben was speechless. I could see he was trying to think of something to say, but what words are there that would be remotely appropriate? Ben said a suspicious hello to my sister as she happily ran by to the kitchen, not even realizing how hurtful the words on her sweater were.

My father thought the sweaters were just an innocent joke and he bought one for everyone, with my mother being slave #1. He would make us wear them many times at home, even if people were over.

Then there was the library, which was directly to the left of the entrance. It was a separate room on the first floor in which my father would spend a lot of time. He would usually leave the door open so he could yell out to anyone passing by and ask them to do something for him.

On that summer day, with the air conditioning in the house blasting and every one wearing winter coats inside in the middle of July, Ben looked left and saw a roaring fire.

“My dad likes to have a fire going even in the summer, so he turns the air conditioning up full blast. It gets cold in the house, but his library is warm because he has the fire going.”

I don’t remember what Ben said after that, if he said anything. The look on his face, though, I will always remember. It was pure disbelief. I tried to shrug it off and just explain it as one of those quirks of my father.

But it wasn’t just a quirk, it was selfish behavior that made everyone else in the house cold and uncomfortable just so he could enjoy his fire. Claiming to be a man of God that spoke to God himself, here he was putting his own desires ahead of everyone else’s.

It was just another day in my house. Nothing new, just another thing that my father did to make himself happy without thinking of anyone else.

I never invited Ben over much again. We became really great friends, but we stuck to hanging out at the mall or at his place.

Paging Someone

Wed, 28 Apr 2021 09:55:51 -0500

There was a paging system in my house when I was a teenager.

Each room had a speaker that was connected to one of the main units, one of which was in my parents’ bedroom and another that was in my father’s library. Unless the speaker had the mute button on, my parents could listen in on whatever us kids were doing in our rooms through the paging system. The main system could page all of the speakers, and my father would do this whenever he wanted, really loudly through the entire house.

Sometimes he would ramble on about something stupid, or just to let them know some random apparent fact. Instead of actually taking time to spend with his kids, he would frequently page the house and say “I love you {insert kid’s name here}.”

There was nothing more embarrassing than him doing that while I was on the phone or when one of my friends was over. I always hated this paging system but was always able to live with it. But there were so many times I just couldn’t take it and had to leave the house any chance I could get.

Whenever my father was home for an extended period, he seemed to live on the paging system, always talking about something stupid or asking for something from me, my mother, or one of my siblings. There was nothing worse than just sitting down to relax and then hearing your father’s voice really loud throughout the entire house asking you to go get him a glass of water from the kitchen, which was only about two meters from his library.

Even worse, you knew that once you went down the glass of water wouldn’t be the end of it. Follow-up work was always involved, some of which was really awful.

Choosing the Right Moment

Tue, 30 Mar 2021 16:57:00 -0500

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.

Nothing in Common

Fri, 26 Mar 2021 07:18:48 -0500

The thing about growing up in a cult is you have no idea about what the outside world is like. I recently watched a Netflix series called Unorthodox. It’s about a young girl who grew up in an orthodox Jewish family in New York.

One scene in an episode had her in a club for the first time in her life. She didn’t know the music. She didn’t know how to dance. She’s never drank before. Everything was completely alien to her. Even though she grew up in modern day New York, she had no idea how to behave in any social situation outside of the customs and beliefs she knew.

I could relate so well to this. It’s exactly how I felt when I left the cult I grew up in and experienced life outside for the first time. There were so many unknowns and I still think today how much this has affected my life and choices.

The Bottle

Sun, 07 Mar 2021 08:05:36 -0500

“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.

Samsonite

Wed, 03 Mar 2021 11:04:00 -0500

My first trip abroad was three years prior when I was 14.

I went to the UK and, while it was different, it had many similarities to my home in the midwest. This, however, this was truly different. And I loved it.

I loved the complete disconnect from anything that was familiar. Even though my presence in Ecuador was to assist my father’s missionary work - which was loathsome for me - just being in such different surroundings was invigorating. Was this what people meant when they referred to the “travel bug”, I asked myself.

My feelings of peace in what to me was chaotic surroundings was interrupted as the rest of my group came through the lobby. I had already lugged down two of the massive suitcases filled with religious literature that we brought with us and my older brother Alex soon appeared with the second two suitcases.

While we had a short rough patch during our early teenage years, Alex and I have always remained extremely close. If it weren’t for him I don’t think I would have managed to get through many parts of my life. Ecuador was exciting yet agonizing in many ways, and having Alex there made it all easier.

I put my coke bottle - still over half full and cool to the touch - on the front desk and lugged two of the four heavy suitcases out to our van where our driver awaited.

We had been carrying these suitcases since our departure from home. Through airports, bus stations, trains, hotels, and many times loading and unloading them into different cars, taxis, and vans. Alex and I ruminated amongst ourselves that our father brought us with not to give us a unique experience, but to carry the luggage.

These suitcases were not the expensive, light kind that you might see today at a high-scale luggage boutique. These were heavy-duty Samsonite 1990s suitcases, and the worst kind. They were heavy themselves, only had two wheels on one end that only allowed you to pull them one way, and they were shaped oddly, with sharp angular edges on the top.

How I loathed those suitcases.

Something Different

Wed, 03 Mar 2021 10:54:00 -0500

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.