Prozac
I have suffered enough
My boyfriend sat in respectful silence for two hours as my mouth audibly told him the breakdown of my mental state. I watched as his wisdom of life turned to unknowing, and his capability to fix turned to helplessness.
The two of us have held hundreds of conversations, but this one, this time, rendered him powerless.
“Every day, I wake up and live a life that was forced upon me. I don’t live a life I built by my choices and loathe it.” - I wept
Healing fucking sucks. The deeper I reach, the discovery of the suffering I have endured fills me with indignation.
After I was kicked out of the cult in 2018 and for the three years that followed, I bounced through life with such a child-like joy, it was palpable. There was no trauma, no animosity, no abuse, no struggle, and no fear.
That is until I gained knowledge—the ultimate tool of the devil, or so I had been taught.
“Education is of the devil.” - The cult’s heavy-handed mantra used to keep us naive to their controlling atrocities and to keep asses filling their pews three times per week.
However, on March 21, 2018, the evening the kickout occurred alongside my ex-husband, I set in stone a vow to do whatever it took to unlearn all that I had been indoctrinated to trust without question.
Nobody warned me about the grief.
The truth is, the deeper I dive, the louder the voices of those surrounding me, telling me to leave my past in the past and move forward.
I don’t believe in forgiveness.
They tell me, “Forgiveness is for you so you can move on.”
No. Forgiveness is the accused. Forgiveness gives way to excuses. Forgiveness allows the perpetrators to strike again and again. I choose to hold them all to account.
In the past two weeks, I have been called “mentally unwell, a dick, an unfit parent, a liar, and a loser,” all because I am standing firm on accountability; in my standing, the attempts to silence, manipulate and intimidate rise.
It would be extraordinarily easier to let it all go, to refuse to look in the rearview, to forgive, forget, and stay trapped in their grasp. However, to move in forward motion, I need to understand myself, the who of who I am, and I need to obtain the truth of the place where from where I originate.
The majority understand it on a surface level: “It’s their beliefs. I’ll live my life, and they can live theirs.” That would be fine and dandy if their beliefs ended with choosing pineapple on pizza; the dilemma lies in the fact that their beliefs cause harm, life-altering harm.
I wasn’t raised with the possibility of my reality being lived outside cult walls. Three times a week, I believed that my life, as I knew it, would end, and I would be swept up with a final pinch into the rapture. My grandma did not believe she would see her youngest turn five, never mind becoming a great-grandma to ten children.
Doomsday is one hell of a drug.
The prophet William Branham, whom we followed, said he couldn’t see past the year 2000. We are now twenty-five years past that ‘prophecy,’ and I live a life outside of those cult walls, a life they chose for me.
Over the past year, I have written blog posts regarding the ugly truths of the struggle in living this life, I have received feedback that I should not post them; in drafts they remain.
When I married at the tender age of nineteen, the prospect of single parenthood was absurd. I married forever; my husband would be my husband on earth and in the ‘New Jerusalem’; divorce was not an option.
Divorce saved my life, but preceding its life-saving action, the inability to divorce nearly eradicated me.
My ex-in-laws vilified me. I was the last person in the cult they would have their son marry. The father-in-law stood for my parents at their wedding, and the mother-in-law grew up down the street from my mother, spending many hours in my mother’s childhood home. Our families were so close that a continued loathing for each other remains in Newfoundland. How close? My ex-husband and I share cousins.
After years of enduring vilification for being my bright, loud and intelligent self, I was ordered in a cult meeting with the cult leader and his elders to dim and change.
I labelled myself a ‘Church Mouse,’ unseen and unheard. Nocturnal, I was alone with my thoughts at night while I nourished a baby with a bottle of formula.
Motherhood, the pinnacle for cult women, was my whole identity. It didn’t become my identity; it was my identity before I took my first breath; there were no life trajectory options, just one pathway.
“Every day, I wake up and live a life that was forced upon me. I don’t live a life I built by my choices and loathe it.” - I wept
Blowing air up my ass, I am a phenomenal mother. Perhaps it isn’t blowing air up my ass. When a domestic violence charge is brought forward, and children are concerned, Child Protection Services must become involved. On August 6th, 2021, the day after the RCMP arrested my ex-husband for abusing me, Melanie from CPS arrived on my doorstep.
Opening a file on our family, which is typically mandatory for a year, Melanie interviewed the children separately in my bedroom. She did a thorough walk-through of the house, too. I was terrified my children were about to be taken from me. I’ve watched the movies, heard the stories, and was about to be another statistic. The house was ravaged. The garage had been unattainable as he amassed full garbage bags in the center of the concrete pad. The walls held the secrecy of his authenticity, complete with the holes he punched and the door to my bedroom off its hinges; in rage, he knocked it down—the white carpet, riddled with stains, thirsted for shampoo. The vacant fridge and pantry shelves told our specific and desperate circumstances.
If there ever was a time that I felt helpless, hopeless and unworthy as a mother, it began on August 6th, 2021. This wasn’t the identity I was born with, fuck, this was not a scenario in the blueprint of my predestinated life. We were supposed to be the perfect Christian family who walked to church with Bibles under our arms and dressed excellently. Still, I sat on the burnt orange chair in my living room while Melanie interrogated my children.
In October of the same year, after having multiple check-ins from Melanie, I received a text message from her reading:
“I am closing your file; you’re amazing. I wish you all the best.”
In my new reality, I worked relentlessly to create stability for my children; their final memory of their dad was witnessing him being handcuffed on the hood of an RCMP cruiser. I emptied all of myself from my already drained human form as the needs of five children fell solely onto me. Many days and nights, I sat with them on the now shampooed carpet, crying and explaining in age-appropriate terminology the legalities of the incident and how the future would be, all the while hugging their emotions. There was no telling them, “Dad went away for work,” not when your ten-year-old son would go on to be subpoenaed to testify against his dad in court.
Alongside the healing of their broken hearts, I was in my own personal hell, but I was “good.” I have always been “good.” Three weeks post-DV, Victim Services called to check in and ask how things were going and how I was doing. Sitting on the deck, with a smile beaming, I replied, “ I’m good!”
“Wow, are you sure?” - the volunteer questioned.
“I am! We have a safety plan; we go to the lake often, and the kids are happy, “ I proclaimed gleefully.
From the other end of the phone, I heard sniffles. “In all of my years of being with Victim Services, you are the first person I have encountered who is so incredibly optimistic, “ the volunteer cried.
In my years on earth, I have built a personal wall of ‘being good.’ I was raised emotionally stunted; there was only ever one emotion, one state of being, and that was ‘good.’ After the first few times that my ex-husband was kicked out of the cult without me, when asked by any cult member how I was doing, my answer was always, without fail, “I’m good!”
In the cult meetings that followed my ex-husband’s fall from cult grace, I upheld a strength that astonished even the ‘Men of leadership.’
‘Good and strong’ is my programming, but as I wrote in my previous blog
my programming is blinking, ‘ DANGER DANGER’ now, and I am escaping, leaving ‘Good and Strong’ in the fucking dust.
Nothing good has become of me being good, and my strength hid my needs in its shadow….
….. until knowledge, healing and grief.
So, what ugly truth have those around me forbidden me to post? My truths regarding motherhood so I’ll share a glimpse into that window here.
If raised with the choice, I would not have chosen this, and I most certainly would have never chosen single motherhood. This shit is impossible, and I hate waking up to live the impossible over and over again.
I desired University.
I craved a Career.
The first time I stepped into a high school or University while in session was in November 2024, at the age of 32, and no, it wasn’t for my education.
And while many out there, perhaps a few reading this, will say, “But Bre, you are so rich in life being the mother of five!”
I will stop you right there.
I love my children and I will forever be the wind beneath their wings and the sturdy hand holding them up, but it came at the expense of the near eradication of me.
My boyfriend sat in respectful silence for two hours as my mouth audibly told him the breakdown of my mental state. I watched as his wisdom of life turned to unknowing, and his capability to fix turned to helplessness.
It was in the aftermath of my truth that I realized I was no longer ‘ good and strong.’ I picked up my cell phone and dialled my doctor’s office.
“What is the reason for your visit?” - asked the receptionist
“Anxiety,” - I answered.
In speaking with my doctor, who has been in my family for over 30 years, he looked at me, showed me my chart and said, “ In all of my years of knowing you, I have written you less than a handful of prescriptions. It is time for you to stand up for your truth, and I will help you do that. Your story needs to be told to help others.”
I left with a prescription for Prozac and Ativan—one for every day and the other for emergencies.
FUCK being good and FUCK strength.
It’s time to let go for I have suffered enough.
Bre, I always look forward to reading your posts!! I do make sure I have the time to really hear you. You write so well! I love your story and hate your story all at the same time. I hate the abuse you experienced as a result of religion, and I love your resilience and your will to heal...
Much respect and admiration....
You have suffered enough. Please continue to do everything to be the real you. 🫂