It started small. A birthday card, $4.99. I didn’t know the recipient well but this was a new expectation, kissing feet of the cult elite. I tucked the card into the white envelope, licked the glue with my saliva and sealed it shut. On the front, I wrote ‘Sister P.’
This birthday card became the origin of my most prominent coping mechanism, my ‘go-to’ that became my second nature.
I8 and with my bio parents kicked out of the cult, I found myself living in a new home with a new family. With a popularity status change, I was now a cult ‘somebody.’ The assistant pastor and his wife were now my parental figures and the pressure to be the poster child of a ‘good christian girl’ was mine to bear. The angst of being kicked out of the cult into the outside world (just like my bio parents had been) if I did not meet their expectations engulfed me. As my new found life began, the expectations rolled out and I began to lie.
Lying to survive. Lying to people please. Lying to escape religious death. Lying to hide. Lying to keep the status quo. Lying to be heard. Lying to be seen. Lying to be loved. Lying to be kept. Lying to be. Lying to live another day.
The power in the hands of the assistant pastor and his wife was expansive. Next in line to the leader, there was nothing off limits. My closest friends shut me out due to my my new ‘Mom & Dad’ and my boyfriend was terrified.
I remember the anxiety, the fear, the nausea. Like a carrot on a stick in front of a rabbit’s nose, eternal life with Jesus Christ dangled and I did everything I could to catch it.
The air circulating in my new home was impenetrable. One wrong spoken word or misstep and my world as I knew it was one spark away from being burned to the ground. I didn’t have options, I had to do whatever it took to survive. Although ‘thou shall not lie’ is a commandment, God, he would forgive me, right?
It was a Wednesday night, which meant church. Church happened twice on Sunday and once on Wednesday. This particular Wednesday evening was my first ‘test’ as they would come to call it.
The birthday card I was to give to ‘Sister P.’ To nervous to approach her, (she is the Leader’s sister-in-law afterall) I skirted my new expectation to make a good impression. No big deal I thought, I’ll give it to her on Sunday. On the drive home, the question came, “did you give the card to ‘Sister P’?” With a knot of fear in my stomach and with strong hesitation, I blurted out, ”I did!” I simply could not disappoint them for the repercussion of a worldly life held me captive in torment. I lied to live to see another day for in just a few days it would be Sunday. Once home, I ran to my room in the basement, ‘hid’ the birthday card between a jewelry box and books.
It was Friday morning and my ‘new dad’ was driving me to work. I was talking as I always do, nervous rambles. The air grew dense with every word I spoke. I knew something was wrong but I didn’t know what. They were always dealing with issues regarding members of the cult so that’s probably what it was or at least that’s what I told myself.
I remember the exact spot on the highway where he interrupted me and asked if I had heard the saying, “elephant in the room?” My anxiety was screaming and no amount of self convincing was getting me through this unscathed. I replied, “Never.”
He had found the birthday card and the battle of survival began. “Are you sure you gave the card to Sister P?” “Yes, I am sure!” “Breanna, are you sure? We talked to ‘Sister P’ and she did not receive a card.” My head was spinning, my eyesight foggy and with my internal temperature rising, I repeated “I gave the card to ‘Sister P.’” “The elephant in the room Breanna is the birthday card. You know about it, I know about it and yet it isn’t being spoken about. You have not brought it up. I found it in your room.” There was a lot happening all at once, to much, but one thing stood out, HE WENT INTO MY ROOM?!?! Much to my shock as I was 18 and a legal adult. Required to remain open at all times, the door to my bedroom never closed. My room and all of my belongings were a free for all. Privacy, a respect I was never given. Thank fuck sex toys weren’t allowed. At 18, what even was a vibrator?
I had to bring it up after you double downed.” The stomach nausea that overcame me could have killed me and in that moment, I wish it had. The remainder of the drive, we sat in silence.
I had heard stories of how the Assistant Pastor and wife raised their children, who are much older than I. On Sunday, February 21st, 2010, the night I moved in with them, they had sat me down, welcoming me with a chilling fervour. “The only way this will work is if we treat you as our own daughter.“ The panic and dread within me invisible as I thanked them, with my off centred and vampire fang grin. As we arrived at the destination, Eric* smiled. He assured me to have a good day.
Dear reader, she did not. Little did she know that this was day one. Day one of what should have been a safe space but rather day one that would become her personal torture chamber.
The day was full of Eric* texting me. Copious amounts of happy face emojis and laughs were shared. However, not mentioned was the ‘elephant in the room.’ The uncertainty of the morning drive held me in its grasp. As day turned to evening, I became hyper vigilant.
As Eric* sat in the lower living room, in his recliner and with his wife Alice* on the couch across from him, he called out to me, “Breanna, come and sit, we need to talk.” The shiny, immaculately mopped hardwood floors beneath my feet disappeared and the sunken living room zoomed out wide. I took a step and then another and another and somehow I arrived on the couch, opposite end of Alice*. Their eyes pierced me, judging every thread, every hair and toenail. I adjusted my jean skirt to be sure it covered my knees and my shirt to be sure I didn’t give a peep show of my 28 AA cleavage.
Eric* spoke. “The elephant in the room, it's taking up space and we need to talk about it.” Shitting my pants, I mustered up an “Okay.” It was a painful hour as I listened and agreed. My coping mechanism at the ready.
Lying to survive. Lying to people please. Lying to escape religious death. Lying to hide. Lying to keep the status quo. Lying to be heard. Lying to be seen. Lying to be loved. Lying to be kept. Lying to be. Lying to live another day.
Then it happened, the words fluent out of Eric’s* mouth. “Don’t lie, we can work through anything if you tell the truth.” A lie, his lie. The lie of the cult. The lie of the men. The lie of their God.
How could he say that? I watched that “truth” be a lie with my bio parents. No matter how honest my bio parents were in every meeting they went to, ‘working through’ was not an option. They were simply kicked out, time and time again.
“I won’t lie again, I promise. I am sorry I did not give the card. I will on Sunday.” They stood up and walked over to me, gave me a hug and just like that, it was over. They relished in the fact that once a situation was dealt with, they would not revisit it. That would prove to be yet again, another lie.
They lied to control, gaslight and manipulate. It allowed them to tighten the noose, to shine the halo of shame over my head, keeping me exactly where they needed me to be. Remember, I was their cult poster child project.
Was there any truth? If there was, what exactly was the truth and where was it to be found? It was to be found within myself but I wouldn't learn that until 12 years later.
It was all a lie. Over the course of the year of 2010, there became five “big” lies that I would tell. Five impactful times when I used this coping mechanism to enter into survival mode to keep my head above water and my life from falling apart.
I don’t remember three of the five but I remember the anxiety, the fear, the nausea. Like a carrot on a stick in front of a rabbit’s nose, eternal life with Jesus Christ dangled and I did everything I could to catch it.
Has lying saved me? I’ll have you know it came to save my life but when it was no longer saving me, it began to destroy. In 2022, uncovered by my best friend, the end of what we had built together began. Thus marking the beginning of the end of my coping mechanism. A story for another time. 😉
As I write, there is no timeline to the events of which I share. This project reveals the good, bad and the ugly of the past and present and I’m so happy you’re here on the journey with me.
*Names except mine have been changed to protect identity.