I joined the message of William Branham when I was sixteen years old. I was not raised in a religious home and the only person I knew in the message was my best friend. My teenage years were hard in so many ways—for me and my family. I didn’t communicate with my parents and I was always angry. The anger can be traced back to sexual assaults by a distant, male relative, starting when I was five years old. My parents didn’t know what he had done to me until many years later. If they had, that man probably, hopefully, would have spent a lot of years in jail. My mom and dad always took care of me.
I didn’t talk to them about important things—I didn’t talk to them at all if I could help it. I lived my life, as much as possible, without counsel or wisdom from any adult. I had so many secrets and made so many mistakes. Mistakes that are still affecting me, even though I am sixty-two years old.
I fell in love when I was fifteen and he broke up with me when I was sixteen. During our last phone conversation, my boyfriend told me to read the Bible. He said that over and over. I had read the Bible, off and on, starting when I was ten.
My brother and sisters and I were allowed to go to church if we had a way to get there. I wanted to go and started riding a bus every Sunday morning with one of my friends. It was a scary, fire and brimstone Baptist church. They had me terrified of God, even after I accepted Jesus as my personal Lord and Savior.
They talked about lots of things I had never heard of before, like the rapture, the tribulation, the final judgment, and the lake of fire. The preacher reminded us in every sermon that we could all die at any second—children included. Kids like me die every hour, every minute, every second. They had altar calls on Sunday mornings. And every time they had an altar call, I had a panic attack. I didn’t know they were panic attacks until I started therapy as an adult. When I was ten, I thought my heart pounding, feeling dizzy and hot, was God telling me I still wasn’t saved. I did it wrong. It didn’t work. I messed it up. I don’t remember how many altar calls I went in. I knew you weren’t supposed to need to do it over and over, but I always felt like I still wasn’t saved. I was so scared of God, which made me a great candidate for the message. That was when I was ten.
When I was sixteen, after my boyfriend broke my heart, my best friend called me one day and we started talking about the Bible. I knew she had a strange religion and that was why she didn’t wear pants or cut her hair. A lot of us had long hair in the seventies, including me. But my mom trimmed my hair. My friend’s hair had never been trimmed.
By the end of the conversation, I believed William Branham was the end time prophet, and everything else he claimed to be. I didn’t know that some people thought he was God. I found out years later and never understood why anyone would believe that.
I had to stop doing all the worldly, sinful things I had loved my entire life, like wearing blue jeans, watching TV, going to the movies, and listening to rock and roll.
As soon as we got off the phone, I got some garbage bags and went to my bedroom and put all my evil clothes and my sneakers, which I wore every day, along with my blue jeans and tee-shirts, to school. Not anymore! When I asked my mom if we could give all the clothes to Goodwill, she said no, a very emphatic no. The garbage bags ended up on the floor of my closet, under the teddy bears and stuffed animals I no longer played with.
My parents had no idea I had joined a cult. They thought I was going through a phase of wanting to be in a very strict Christian church because my best friend was in it. There’s no way it could last—right? You could call it a phase, a phase that lasted twenty-eight years.
I started trying to be nice to my mom and dad and brother and sisters, but I was such a failure at it, that I’m pretty sure no one noticed. I didn’t know why I was so angry and I didn’t question it. The only thing I did with my anger was feel it overwhelm me again and again and express it in very mean ways. It was a bad time for my entire family.
I had two or three outfits left. I was doing laundry quite often, until I saved up my babysitting money and bought some godly clothes. My parents did not want to enable me to continue being in this group they did not approve of. They didn’t buy me any clothes for this new lifestyle. They said that soon, I would change my mind and they weren’t going to waste the money. I told them they were wrong.
My dress shoes, the only ones not in the bags, didn’t fit anymore and they hurt my feet until I got enough money to buy another pair.
I spent as much time as my parents would allow in my room. I would’ve spent twenty-four hours a day in there if they would’ve let me. But they didn’t. I sat on the couch with my family, watching The Wonderful World of Disney, Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, Mork and Mindy, Gilligan’s Island, and the Addams Family. I didn’t feel too guilty about that.
Tapes of William Branham preaching and books that were transcripts of William Branham preaching became a huge part of my life. Since I wasn’t raised in the message, there was so much I didn’t know about what was right to do and what was wrong, according to the prophet.
I started dating a guy when I had only been a believer four months. I brought him to church and soon he, too, was a follower of William Branham. We were at a red light and he asked me to marry him. I said yes before it turned green. I was sure I was in love with him. I wanted to marry him, but didn’t consider the engagement a binding contract. I was another silly teenager who thought she was in love.
Soon after, we were at church and our pastor preached about engagement, reading quotes from William Branham and the Bible. I found out I was already married—in the eyes of God. And, if I broke up with my boyfriend, I could not marry anyone else. That would be adultery. At that moment, it felt like a dungeon lowered itself down over me. Trapped! I decided I would marry him. It was either that or never have a husband, kids, a family of my own. With the total absence of wisdom in my teenage brain, I knew I would marry him. No matter what.
After we found out we were already married, my boyfriend started doing things like showing up an hour late for our dates, being rude and disrespectful, and making racist comments, which always caused a fight, because I hated racism back then, just like I do now. I never allowed any thoughts into my head, except, “I love him.” And “I am going to marry him”. I never considered breaking up with him, no matter how often he made me cry and how infuriating he was.
We got married in 1981. As we drove away from the church, I was excited and scared. Our first kiss was not at the altar. It was on our first date. But I was a virgin.
What neither of us knew was that I was born with a congenital abnormality of my hymen that prevented intercourse, which is something about 0.05% of women have. The wedding night was a nightmare of pain and tears, but no blood. My new husband insisted on completing the act until he ejaculated, while I cried and even screamed. I couldn’t believe how bad it hurt. When I told him something was wrong and I needed to see a doctor, he said, “It always hurts girls the first few times.” and “You have a low pain tolerance.” I knew he was wrong. The evidence? The existence of the human race. No one would voluntarily do what I had just done once, much less over and over.
We honeymooned in the Smoky Mountains. During the day, we looked at beautiful waterfalls, ate delicious food, and drove around, taking in the scenery. At night, we did what he insisted on doing, until completion. I thought of old movies when they cut someone’s foot off. They give the guy some whiskey and a stick to put in his mouth, a bunch of people hold him down, and the doctor gets out the saw. I wondered, where’s my whiskey, where’s my stick that will stop me from screaming, because I was screaming and crying every single night.
What was holding me down? Not a bunch of cowboys. It was the weight of everything I had learned about being a wife from the message and the Bible. That soul destroying, oppressive weight held me down, night after night, and caused me to stay in that bed. I prayed and begged God to help me every second until the pain finally stopped. I knew I had to obey my husband. That’s what the Bible and William Branham said. I knew the Bible said my body belonged to him and his body belonged to me.
Picture a vagina with a castle wall inside it and the battering ram, trying, unsuccessfully, but repeatedly, to break down that wall.
After the honeymoon, we started our new life. It was awful in so many ways. No one had ever cursed at me before. Now I was being called cunt, whore, and motherfucking bitch almost every day. He would grab my body and say, “Those are my tits. That’s my pussy. That’s my property. I own it.” As I laid there, I thought of a dirty, faded, old couch with its stuffing coming out. The owner can slice it open with a knife, pour black oil on it, set it on fire, throw it away. He can do all that because the couch is his property. The Bible says my body is my husband’s property. Just like the couch.
Another thing that happened as soon as we got married was that my period went haywire. I used to have a normal cycle, a cycle you could set your calendar by. Now it was all over the place.
He continued, on a regular basis, to insist we do the most painful thing I had ever experienced. I continued to acquiesce. And every time we did it, he completed the act to his satisfaction. My question was and still is, how can a person enjoy sex enough to have an orgasm while the person under them is crying in pain. I still don’t know the answer.
I continued to tell him I needed to go to the doctor. He continued to say, “It hurts girls the first few times. You have a low pain tolerance.” Then he added, “It’s all in your head.”
As I went about my day, I asked myself over and over, “What’s wrong with me? Isn’t sex supposed to feel good?”
After we were married six months, I told him again, like I did every time we had sex, “I need to go to the doctor.” He said,” It always hurts girls the first few times.” I told him, “The first few times? We’ve been married six months!” I couldn’t take it anymore. I lied and said I had a rash and needed to see a gynecologist. He said, “Sure, that’s fine.”
The doctor knew right away what was wrong with me. He said I needed surgery. When I told my husband, he was glad. We both thought the problem would be fixed. He never said the words, “I’m sorry for not believing you and putting you through all that pain.” Never anything like that.
Neither or us knew the problem was a lot bigger than an outpatient hymenectomy could solve. After the surgery, the doctor said my hymen was about an inch and a half thick. My husband could have battered the castle wall for the rest of time and it wouldn’t do anything except destroy me.
After my surgery, recovery time, and post-op check-up, I was cleared to have sex. It still hurt. Very bad, but not as bad. I cried, but I didn’t scream.
Why? The doctor, in his words, had “fixed me”. I was so disappointed, confused, and discouraged. What was wrong with me?
So much more happened. I never once thought I deserved what he did to me or that I caused it. I knew the abuse was wrong. But I didn’t think I was allowed to not submit, just because he was wrong. I didn’t want to be wrong too. So I kept trying to do what I thought God wanted me to do.
We continued our lives. The abuse got so bad that we moved to another state and tried to get a fresh start on our marriage. It did get better. A lot of the worst stuff stopped. But it never got anywhere close to good. And I never felt anything but pain when we had intercourse.
I got beat up, spiritually at church, because I didn’t want to force myself to feel all this pain, even though I wanted a baby so bad. I got beat up, verbally by my husband for the same reason. I wanted it all to stop. But it never stopped. I never stopped. I never stopped praying, I never stopped listening to the tapes and traumatizing myself over and over. If it wasn’t for the message and the Bible, I would not have been living the life I was living.
The thought of making everything, including my life, stop occurred to me frequently. Suicide was getting more tempting everyday. The marriage vow is until-death-do-you-part, right? The only way to end the torture was for one of us to die. I wasn’t going to kill him. If I killed anyone, it would have to be myself.
I was called frigid because I did not want to feel pain. And again, over, and over. “What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me?” And from him, “What’s wrong with you? What. Is. Wrong. With. You?” Day in and day out for years. I didn’t know the answer. Don’t normal people enjoy sex? I’m obviously not a normal person. I just hoped I was bride, but I doubted that too.
One day, in Books-A-Million, I was wandering around and I saw a book called, When a Woman’s Body Says No To Sex: Understanding and Overcoming Vaginismus by Linda Valins. Vaginismus? What’s that?
Vaginismus is a psychological problem that manifests in the body. The problem is that your unconscious mind has come to associate any kind of penetration as so painful, that the vaginal muscles contract involuntarily when anything: tampon, speculum, or penis tries to penetrate it. It is impossible to stop those contractions with the conscious mind. I wonder how I got that? Hmmm. It affects 1% of women. And I was one of them.
Finally! The answer! After all these years! I was so happy to find out I wasn’t frigid or crazy or not human, as I was being called regularly. Unfortunately, the answer didn’t take away the pain and it didn’t give me the baby I longed for every day.
We did eventually have a baby, twelve years after we were married, despite my irregular cycle and the vaginismus. That was the happiest day of my life.
My baby, my daughter, changed my identity. I was no longer a freak of nature that hated what everyone else on the planet seemed to love, no longer was I a bride-material-hope-to-be. I was a mother. And mothers have a job. Our job is to take the best care of our children as possible.
And taking care of my daughter did not include raising her in a toxic home and a doomsday cult. When she was three, I broke with cult teachings and started seeing a psychologist to try and make the marriage better, a healthy, happy place for my daughter to exist. That didn’t happen, but I stayed in therapy for myself. I wish I could say I got us both out of the marriage and the cult days or weeks after she was born. I didn’t. It was ten years, which is my biggest regret in life.
I left him and took my daughter and moved in with my parents. A year later I left the cult. Leaving the message was the hardest thing I ever did and it was a long, scary, incredibly difficult process. My therapist helped me through it all and to do it all. I finally had someone in my life I didn’t have to keep secrets from. Someone who supported me being who I really was, not who I was supposed to be—for other people or for God.
I left my ex in 2003 and the cult in 2004. I have never been happier. My daughter was able to grow into a woman without the destructive purity culture the message espouses. She is a wonderful, kind, hard-working woman that I am so proud to call my daughter.
I did find out I no longer had vaginismus. Maybe it was gone because my husband was gone from my life.
I had to go to vocational school and get a profession. It was so great to live with my mom and dad while I did that. I became a medical coder and got the job I wanted at the hospital I wanted to work at.
I bought a house and I still live in it. I love my house—it’s my favorite place to be. I call it the Peace House because I have peace here. No one abuses me here. No one tears me down. No one curses at me or yells at me or tells me I will end up in the lake of fire.
Your body is your property. It belongs to no one other than you. Not even your husband. You are allowed to say no. To pain. To degradation. To anything that hurts you. To anything and everything you don’t want someone else to do to you. I wish I would have known that on my wedding day. You don’t have to go through that kind of suffering.
You belong to you.
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