It started before I was born, when my parents were very young and fell in love.  They were both True Blood Mormon, my father having converted and my mother being the fifth generation of a large TBM family.  For reasons I have never fully heard, my mother's family didn't want her to marry my father.  They still received support from her parents and were on fairly comfortable terms with her immediate and extended family (at least what I remember from when I was young and we visited my cousins). 

            Times were hard for the young couple.  My father was hit by a car during his mission in Germany, during which he sustained permanent brain damage.  He struggled to hold down a job.  My mother went to college, receiving a degree in secretarial studies, or something like that.  She also had trouble holding down a steady job. 

            My parents would have had their first child nearly nine months after they were married if he hadn't come a couple of weeks early.  They were a very happy young Mormon couple, having fulfilled their eternal duty and whatnot.  Times were still hard, but for a while they were good.

            Less than two years later my second brother was born.  Times were even harder now with two children, but my parents were still doing okay.  About two years later, they had another boy.  At this point, my mother really, really wanted a girl and she was determined to get one.  She was unprepared however for yet another pregnancy within a few months of her third child.  This one she didn't want.  This one she resented.  I remember her telling me the story of when she found out she was pregnant with her fourth child several times, and when I do I feel sad.  She had been happy and life had been perfect, she told me.  

            But she was Mormon.  That meant that her fourth child was supposed to be a blessing, a gift from god, preordained to be with their family before any of them were ever born.  So she had the baby hoping it was a girl.  And so my fourth brother, who is so very near and dear to my heart, was born on the way to the delivery room.  He protested the entire experience loudly.  When my parents took him home he cried loud enough to make the neighbors complain (an impressive feat considering they lived in the suburbs).  He was treated badly for the most part, as the middle child he was the scapegoat, the outsider, unwanted and told so on a regular basis.  

            He took a paper route when he was 12, something that quickly turned into a real job.  He paid for most of his immediately older brother's clothes, and he has said our father told him that he was the reason our family had groceries and gas in the car much of the time.  On top of his paper route, he was a part of the wrestling team.  He was also expected to attend seminary every day and pay tithing. 

            I'm writing this so that what happened next will not be a surprise.  My brother left the church, and rather explosively too.  It all came to a head when my parents discovered that he was sleeping with his girlfriend (he was 18 at the time) and gave him an ultimatum; he could marry his girlfriend or move out.  He moved out, with six boxes and less than $100 to his name. 

            He refused to speak to our parents for 2 years, save for a single phone call he made at around the year and a half mark.  He called from a payphone and when my father answered he said only "I want to talk to my sister." 

            I don't remember the conversation, but I do remember the call.  This was a difficult time in my life.  I was only seven years old at the time, but I lived in a troubled home and knew it.  I was often left to fend for myself; one of my earliest memories was eating raw mushrooms and ketchup, being alone in the house and too young to know how to make anything else.  All of my older brothers had left  and I had a sneaking suspicion that a more appropriate term would be "fled."  None of them visited regularly.  I felt abandoned and alone. 

            Except for Dave.  That call from a payphone was the first time I knew that I was not alone.

            The years passed and occasionally Dave visited.  He left for the military, returning around the time that I was just getting into high school.  He moved back in with myself and our parents with a single goal; to make sure that I had the skills I needed to function in the wider world.  He made a big impression in my life; after all, he was the first person to bother to explain things to me instead of yell when I did something wrong.  He was by  no means a steady presence.  His desire to help me was clouded by the desire to leave the nest.  It didn't help that my parents did many little mean, hurtful acts to let him know he was not wanted at home.

            Here were the seeds for my departure from the church.  My parents and I attended church regularly, participated in most of the programs, and read scripture at home.  There was always the knowledge that my two youngest brothers had left the church.  It was there like a shadow, close enough to touch but never discussed.  The point was driven home with Dave sleeping on the back porch (my parents refused to clean out a room for him to sleep in).  He took over part of the old single-car garage turned utility room.  I spent hours in there watching TV and talking about life, our personal family history, and even religion.  I respected and admired him for being my older brother, so I never confronted him about being an ex-Mormon.  I loved him and worried for his eternal salvation.

            At the same time I had several friends who had never been Mormon and never wanted to be Mormon.  I tried to convert them, like a good little Mormon girl, but nothing worked.  They showed me that they were happy without the "true gospel."  They showed no signs of being miserable or being denied spiritual blessings that I was promised in church.  Their families struggled just like mine, which divine help nowhere in sight.

            Through my talks with Dave I discovered much about my parent's history with my brothers.  I learned about many things they did that while weren't outstandingly evil, were ugly, real, and very human.  My childhood image of my parents, perfect and all-knowing, was shattered once and for all.  I was blindingly angry, confuse, and above all scared.  I was aware of the skills and knowledge I was missing but would need in order to survive as an adult.  I became aware that my aging parents were on the brink of no longer being able to support me, and that if I continued to live with them the tables would be turned. 

Even so, I was beginning to think for myself.

            I started analyzing what I heard in church.  I didn't do very much research into its origins but I asked questions.  One in particular I asked of my Young Women's leader.  I don't recall the question and little of her answer.  What I do remember is the look on her face when she thought about it.  In short, she didn't.  It scared me down to the core and I came to a very important truth; the Mormon church encourages it's members to be sheep, mindless and blindly following the Shepard.  Despite this, I still wanted to believe.

            The problem was that I had "impure thoughts." The only way to repent for these was to talk to my bishop, which made me extremely uncomfortable.  During my period of questioning the bishop in my ward was excommunicated for adultery.  I was shocked, and the nail had been pounded in the coffin of my belief.  I would never speak with any bishop or church authority figure about my "sin."  How could I trust them when they might be harboring secret sins be worse than my own?

            I didn't leave the church immediately, though I stopped going to church.  Many of you know how that is, every week turns into every other week, then once a month and conference, and then nothing.  I saw seminary through and got a graduation certificate even though my heart wasn't really in it.  My last year was spent napping in the corner desk.  I think I really stayed because our group had known each other since early childhood and I didn't want to give up that bond.  I got love and support from my Young Women's group that I got from nowhere else.  I didn't want to give that up. 

            But I did.  I decided that I wanted to do things like drink occasionally, have sex before marriage, go on real dates, have a real relationship, live with a boyfriend, and speak freely.  I saw that there was no evidence to support these things would hurt other people.  I decided that I was no longer Mormon.

            What followed was a long journey that was physically, mentally and emotionally trying.  I had to cure myself of severe social anxiety with little-to-no support.  I had to figure out how to be an adult.  I had to define myself without the guidelines of the church. 

            I am here today to say that I did it; I made it safely into a healthy adulthood.  The Mormon church is nowhere in sight, though I am still technically an inactive member.  I love and respect my parents and know what would happen to them if I resigned, so I will wait until they are beyond worldly concerns.    

            We are here on this earth to learn and grow, no matter what is in store for us after death.  From an evolutionary perspective, it is our base genetic disposition to learn and grow, to adapt to our environment and give rise to an improved species.  Along more spiritual lines, what is life if not to gain experience and knowledge, to become something more than we were before?  

            To date I have had only one experience I can call truly religious and evidence of a higher power.  In my opinion this means I've been doing well enough in my life that god or whatever higher power is up there has had no need to intervene otherwise. 

 

            PhoenixGate, known as Sue, or SueofthePhoenixGate