From Cult to Couture
A seven-year journey.
The Power of Choice.
I took this photo on March 22, 2018, in the fitting room of the store Bootlegger, one day after I was officially kicked out of the life-long indoctrination of William Branham. A virgin in the monstrous real world, a dress hem that stopped falling from above my knee captured the craving of the sheltered and buried alive woman within who was desperate for oxygen.
As I slipped into the dress, my blood pressure was in the heart attack zone, I was sweating bullets, my hands were shaking, and I was unsure if I'd make it out of the store alive.
A knock on the fitting room door from the retail worker asking how the dress was fitting scared me fucking shitless. The level of paranoia of being watched by culties, the men of leadership and god himself could have won a war.
Against my indoctrinated modest Christian girl judgement, the dress found its way into my closet; my inner claws were working overtime to release her truth.
My fashion choices were under the cult microscope. I dressed my boys in pink and was told I had to stop due to the colour pink influencing them to be gay. I wore bright colours and mixed patterns, which drew negative attention and reprimand. My ex-in-laws felt that my fashion choices were too boisterous for what should have been a ‘fade into the background’ good girl.
My fashion choices were a subconscious form of rebellion.
For the past seven years, I have rebuilt my closet from cult to couture through thrifting and the generosity of friends and acquaintances.
While fashion has been on a budget, the mental blocks and traumas the power of having fashion choices has helped me overcome are priceless.
From never wearing garments pertaining to a man to swearing I’d never wear a skirt below the knees again, my closet now bursts with diversity because *I* am in control; I make the choice.
My body is not to be sexualized without consent. The clothes I wear are not an invitation asking to be raped. The clothes I wear don't symbolize my relationship with ‘Sky Daddy.’ My clothes express self-confidence and a woman’s right to choose.
After seven years, that woman clawing within all those years ago is alive and breathing oxygen today. I bring her to life every fucking day, and you bet your asses I will show her off. Call me narcissistic all you want, but I don't give a fuck what you think; I lived by the gauge of others for 30 years.
I'm a mom of five who wears crop tops, booty shorts, and stilettoes, which expose her cleavage, back, arms, and pits. I have healed to the point where I wear mini, midi, and floor-length skirts. I am a 33-year-old woman who wears whatever the fuck she wants; your opinions are invalid.
I didn't survive modesty and control to give it a second of my precious life any longer.
I will shine brighter if my confidence shines too brightly into your shadows, and I will expose my knees to make religious freaks uncomfortable continually.
Now, if you excuse me, I have a selfie to capture.
Just keep on being you 💕
Good on you!