My story

Utah County beginnings

I was raised in Orem, UT, which is about as homogenous a place you can get. Everyone in my high school had to have been white, blue eyed, and Mormon. Being half-Chinese, I felt I didn’t fit the norm even more. Especially when some douchey guy once referred to me as “the exotic one.”

Through a harrowing process of scanning my journal, sifting through the juvenile ramblings about school, boys, and my parents, I found the first documented beginnings of my struggles with the LDS church. It was 1991, and I was almost 13.  Entries talked about how church was boring, I hated going, and I never got anything out of it. I wrote things like: “I hate the church”, “I wish I had never heard of it,” “It is ruining my life”, and in one particularly emphatic entry:

Admittedly, part of this rhetoric was coming from a chaotic brain on the verge of adolescence. I was revolting against what I perceived as a suffocating and rigid dictatorship, devised by church teachings and enforced by my parents. Still, there really were things about the church that just didn’t resonate with me, especially the culture. I hated Young Womens with a passion. I thought the idea of re-enacting a pioneer trek was the dumbest thing I had ever heard of. Home teachers and bishop interviews and some of the activities were just straight up awkward and weird. One of the first doctrines I remember questioning was, How can this be the ONLY true church? Out of all the good people that have ever lived and will live, the percent of members is so miniscule. So how can this be it???

High school, higher stakes

I went through high school with this same attitude. Half trying but mostly rebelling. There were some pretty tumultuous times with my parents, especially since I was the oldest, the guinea pig. I often believed they cared more about the church than they did for my feelings and well being. Looking back as an adult and especially as a parent, I feel sad and pretty much like a jerk for all of the anger I directed at them. I know they loved me and I now know they were just doing the best they could. No parent knows what the hell they are doing. Mine simply used the tools they had at hand, provided to them by the church, which was something they trusted and believed in. Having said that, I will forever foster a strong hatred for that damn For the Strength of the Youth handbook.

My husband Jeff and I met and dated in our high school years. Being hormonal teenagers, you can easily surmise what kind of activities ensued. The internal struggle created by this was by far the most damaging for me. My self-esteem was ravaged well into my adult years. The battle of love and bodily desires versus what I had been taught created a lot of upheaval for me. All the adjectives assigned to anything sexual– “unclean”, “impure”, “unworthy” and on and on…..I believed these terrible words also applied to me. I have a LOT to say on this subject in future posts.)

A huge weight of guilt burdened me for a very long time. There were major humiliations talking to bishops about such private matters, especially as an adolescent girl. Thinking about my daughter having to talk to a strange man in a sterile office about such personal details makes me sick. My high school bishop almost didn’t let me graduate from seminary because of my honest confessions. That would have been disastrous to explain to my parents. It would have been far easier to blame it on the plethora of tardies and unexcused absences I had racked up. To my relief, he ended up signing my paper, despite my transgressions. Probably more to get rid of me than anything.

Enter college.

My future husband and I went to SUU in Cedar City in 1999 for my freshman year. Halfway through, we broke up. He still denies it, but I think he wanted to get married. I was scared. We were 19 and he had been my only serious relationship. I really wanted him to go on a mission, because that’s what you were supposed to do. After our break up, he moved back home and soon decided he would go on a mission. When I finished my next semester I moved back home. We got back together before he left. I sent letters to him every single week via the pouch, and the occasional tape recorded message of my voice talking to him. I may have broken down and called him a time or two. It was a really difficult time; I missed him terribly.

While he was gone, I tried my best to live righteously. I really sought to build a testimony during this time, doing all the things. You know: searching, pondering, and praying. Taking institute classes and earnestly marking up my scriptures. Attending church every week, even asking for a calling. Still, I always felt empty. I didn’t feel the burning in my bosom my patriarchal blessing had promised. My prayers were seemingly bouncing off the ceiling and I felt that I was just talking to myself. The spirit never manifested itself to me, and I never really experienced any joy about anything I learned. I even attended BYU for one semester that *surprise* I HATED with a passion. Luckily, I got into nursing school at the University of Utah and moved up to Salt Lake City.

Despite still being in Utah, it was a whole new world for someone raised inside the Utah County bubble. My spirituality quest continued in my SLC student ward. I dated a boy who was 150% wrong for me, but still considered marrying. With the pressure to be married off at a young age, one has to look at each person as marriage material. I still wrote my missionary every week, but I didn’t tell him about this guy. When he came home, it all blew up and a few very volatile months ensued. Then we got our shit together, as we knew we wanted to be with each other forever. Three months after Jeff got home, we got engaged. I went through the temple, got majorly weirded out, and four months later we were married in the Salt Lake Temple, March 2001.

Beginnings of an eternal marriage

For the first couple years of our marriage, we did the church thing together. I continued working to find my testimony, while trying to cope with the awful feelings I felt about myself. We went to a married student ward and it was just so awful. A special highlight from that time that we still laugh/roll our eyes about is when a guy in Sunday School talked about how he and his wife said a prayer together every single time before engaging in the sex. How could you even get in the mood after that? 

 

The downhill slide

I struggled more than ever with the culture within the church. I hated how fake and judgmental so many people seemed to be. It remained difficult for me to wrap my head around many of the teachings, such as the stance on homosexuality, Word of Wisdom, the different kingdoms. Church history like Joe Smith, polygamy, and blacks and the priesthood continued to rub me wrong. A couple years into our marriage, I grew more and more tired of playing the game and the constant roller coaster. I asked myself if I really wanted to spend the rest of my life in this struggle, constantly searching and searching, never finding an answer. I was over the advice given to me in my patriarchal blessing to memorize Alma 32, which in a nutshell is basically fake it til you make it.

It made me feel ungenuine and like a liar, especially when I bore my testimony. All my life I desperately wanted to be how content I perceived everyone else to be, and JUST BELIEVE. I felt like something was wrong with me. Everyone always had these faith promoting experiences, and I just felt empty and immune to feeling any spirit.

One day I looked at an LDS online forum where people posted questions looking for advice, etc. A convert wrote they were struggling with their testimony, and asked what to do. Some jackoff answered, “It’s easy. You pray. Read scriptures….yada yada. Quoted Moroni 10:3-5….then you will know.” I thought, you arrogant prick. “It’s easy.” Go fuck yourself. Later I talked to my dad about the struggles I was having. I asked him if he ever had a period of doubting or questioning. He said, “No.” Flat out. Then, as if I wasn’t dumbfounded enough, he went on to say “I’ve always felt that I was just born with a testimony.” So there you have it. My own dad thought it was easy too, so I was definitely screwed.

And that’s how I felt. For years I had seen all these things I questioned or had problems with, but nobody else seemed to notice or care.  I felt like I was crazy.

Easing my way out

I stopped going to church. In 2004, I got drunk for the first time at a friend’s wedding in—where else—Las Vegas. Later when another good friend of mine got married, and I searched forever for a modest dress for the wedding and dinner with no luck. I finally lost it and bought a cute sleeveless dress that I actually felt attractive in. It was trivial, yet a one last straw kind of thing for me. I never wore my garments again. I hid it for a long time, wearing clothes around my family that they wouldn’t be able to tell.

Even though I was no longer going to church, I continued carrying around the burden of guilt that I’d never be able to live up to the ideal (and completely unrealistic) of perfection. Or even obtaining a fraction of a testimony.  I couldn’t succeed in any of it and I was tired of beating my head against a brick wall.

I wanted to be completely done but I was scared. What if I was wrong? I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing my parents and other family. As the oldest, I put a lot of pressure on myself to be a good example to my younger siblings. I valued my marriage more than anything and I was terrified of jeopardizing our time and all eternity. Depression descended on me so intensely I wished more than once that I was dead. I was so torn between the life I wanted to live and the life I had been taught to live. I felt I didn’t know what to believe, how to discern what came from me, what was true, and what had been pounded into my head.

Throughout all this, my husband Jeff and I had our ups and downs regarding my struggle. His upbringing was not as strictly adherent to the religion as mine, a sort of on again off again relationship. He shared some of the same issues as I did, so as I started to step away, he was right beside me. This was a huge blessing.

Adding kids to the equation

Then came years of infertility. I just could not get pregnant, and I watched all my friends spit out baby after baby. This was supposed to be the next correct step after mission and marriage! And I was failing again. I truly thought I was being punished for my past sexual transgressions, for my doubts and bitterness. Then, through the miracle of IVF, we got pregnant and had a baby girl in 2009. At age 30, I felt like the oldest first time mom in the world. 

I started being paralyzed by fear about how I would raise this child in regards to the church. Not wanting any part of it for myself or my family, I still worried about making my daughter into a black sheep, a pariah. I had no experience or idea what it was like to be raised outside religion. We took her to church when she was 6 months old to get blessed, but never took her back. 

In 2012, I got pregnant again with IVF. During this pregnancy, I sought out a therapist. I had become so consumed with anger that I worried about the baby growing in that kind of environment. I wanted to be able to cope better so my children wouldn’t have to suffer from my monstrous anger problem.

After meeting with her for some time, we came to realize I had always been struggling with depression. It should have been obvious to me, but I just always thought I was an angry, fucked up person. In hindsight, it was clear that I had experienced post-partum depression after my daughter. I started an antidepressant to prevent that from happening again, and remain on it to this day. It has been difficult for me to rely on medication to keep my emotions in control, but the difference was obvious. It hasn’t been until recently that I have been able to start looking past the stigma about depression and accept that I am not weak or broken.

After our baby boy was born in 2013, my relationship with the church continued kind of on cruise control.  Keeping my distance while working through my therapy sessions, I was beginning to find acceptance and peace with myself. I shed much of the guilt I had been carrying around. It became easier to start living my life and openly being my true self. No more hiding alcohol or the lack of garments (which by the way, my family had noticed despite my best efforts). I became more open about my feelings and struggles. All those close to me, including my wonderful parents, have supported me all the way. The turmoil slowly dissolved, and I was finally feeling liberated. Mostly.

Closure: Officially leaving the LDS church

 

When November 2015 rolled around, the church announced they would not be letting children of LGBT parents get baptized. I was horrified by this action of blatant hate and disrespect. It was another tenet that stood completely against every thing I valued and believed. It sent me into a real tailspin. I wrote a long Facebook post about it {here}. It was then that I decided I needed closure once and for all. I did not want my name associated with an organization whose stance hurt my soul. A few months later, I got the courage to make my final move and had my name removed from the records of the church. I was no longer a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. 

 

 

 

 

The healing continues

Since then, I have continued on in my recovery from the church, and it has gotten immensely easier the longer I am away. My life isn’t perfect by any means, but I know I am a great person. I have created a great life for myself with a happy marriage, 2 wonderful kids, a challenging career, great family and friend relationships, and many hobbies and passions. I am happier and more at peace than I have ever been, and undoubtedly more than I ever found inside the church. Learning to trust my gut and abide by my own moral compass without guilt are game changers.

Sometimes an experience in my life or a story on the news or in politics brings on some strong feels for me. Living in Utah, this is bound to happen a lot. As I continue to grow, I am quicker to process things and bounce back. I spend much less time in anger or bitterness. 

What I know from my journey, especially the early stages, is how isolating it can be. It can be really difficult to talk about these things, especially if you feel there isn’t anyone in your life who gets it. At church, people have their perfection faces on, so it can be easy to feel like you are the only one with any doubts or problems. Over the years, I have talked to so many people in the same boat as I have been. I have discovered that many people that feel the same way, but feel too alone or scared or unsure what to do. They remain stuck in that awful state of limbo that I spent so many years in.  That place SUCKS. My reason for finally starting this blog is twofold: 

1. Writing has always been very therapeutic for me, and
2. In knowing that there are many others out there that are feeling and experiencing many of the same things, I have felt compelled, or prompted if you will, to write about this, in hopes that someone out there can know they are not alone in how they feel. Maybe one of you can find the courage or strength to live a life of authenticity, whatever that looks like. I believe we can create a sense of community–not an anti-Mormon or hater one—but one where we can help create clarity, hope, internal peace, and acceptance within ourselves and with each other.