Essay: Woman in the church pew
On faith and exodus
Trigger warning: sexual assault
During a recent session, my therapist reveals that she’s read my book. She holds it up and says,“You know, it strikes me that you’re secretly spiritual. Your poems are spiritual.”
I hem. I haw. She rephrases: “When did you leave God? Or… maybe you feel like he left you?”
I laugh. This feels like a question you should get extra credit for as a therapist. It’s so therapy-y.
“Do you want the real answer?” I ask. “It’s pretty…dark.”
She nods.
Honestly, I know exactly when God left me. It was February and I was 23, lying on the carpet of my friend’s house after a party. A frat bro named Joe was on top of me. That was the moment I saw God exit the front door. I watched him cut across the lawn, turn left on Gibson and then vanish into the night, his breath still hanging in the air.
I drank a lot in my twenties—mostly because I wanted to put my body against men’s bodies and feel their tongues in my mouth. Because I was raised in purity culture, I wasn't supposed to want that—at least not until I was married. Booze gave me permission—the sin of being drunk and violated seemingly less sinful than being sober and sexual by choice.
Raised overseas as a missionary kid, I wasn't taught boundaries or consent because the assumption was I’d never need to know. I was supposed to be a virgin until I was married. Homeschooled half my life and then enrolled in private Christian schools, I finally entered the “real world” armed only with the motto true love waits.
I’ve never really written about my assaults. Mostly because they happened a long time ago and I’m a much different person now. Also, at the time, I didn’t know they were assaults. And because what happens to other women is so much worse and violent and obvious. And because my assaults were complicated situations in which I didn’t advocate for myself. This is to say: purity culture empowers rape culture.
I also never wrote about my assaults because I couldn't bear hearing anyone tell me it wasn’t my fault, or worse, call me brave in the comments.