by Tess Willoughby

September 11, 2001. This dark day united all Americans in horror, in terror, and in pain.

With at least one exception: Nate Willoughby.

I found out that our country had been attacked using our own commercial aircraft when my mother called me from town and said, “Turn on the news.” Her tone of voice suggested the worst of the worst of the worst: so awful that you didn’t ask “what channel?” because it didn’t matter what channel. The president had been assassinated. There was some horrific, unthinkable natural disaster, probably in Virginia. Something so bad she couldn’t say it.

I hung up, turned on the TV and watched the Twin Towers burn, holding the phone in my hand.

The phone rang. I hit the answer button. Nate lit into me about how I needed to come back to him and I was in rebellion against God and would probably go to hell.

I swallowed and sat on the floor and said, “Are you aware that terrorists have attacked New York City? The World Trade Center is burning!”

Nate said, “Who cares. We’re talking about my life.”

I hung up on him and sobbed and choked in front of the TV until I didn’t have any more strength to cry. How mean and insane was my husband? How would I ever get away from this vindictive bastard without being destroyed? Was Nate even human? Was my country’s government about to fall? How many more planes had been hijacked, and what would blow up next? It felt as though my own personal hell had unleashed national horrors and worldwide chaos. The lid had blown off life itself and nothing venerable, nothing precious, nothing good could stand. My own personal, religious zealot terrorist had gone global somehow and the world was burning and crumbling to the ground; nothing and nobody was safe from crazy men with extreme religious agendas.

Post-traumatic stress does funky things with your brain. That September, I believed that I had landed in a world without personal boundaries, without national security: a world of merciless anarchy where freedom was not only impossible but a joke and and an illusion. A world where terrorists could strike anywhere and nightmarish, ruinously expensive court hearings never ended, but God was silent. I believed that I could lose absolutely everything, even my nation. If not for my parents, I would have lost my sanity.

My divorce lawyer had been worn down by Nate’s bullying to the breaking point. She was pushing me to agree to a no-fault divorce with all legal issues reserved for later. She would do nothing to get me any permanent alimony, nothing to get me any property, nothing to get me permanent custody of my children, nothing to help me with the personal injury suit, nothing at all except to sign a no-fault divorce decree now that the year-long waiting period was over.  She made it clear that I had no choice in this—in order to continue to represent me, she would have to hire additional staff to keep up with Nate, who had her completely buried in paperwork.

My lawyer was quitting, and she hated to bring it up but. . .I owed her $30,000.00. When my dad and I couldn’t pay any more, she put me on a payment plan. When we couldn’t make the payments, she turned me over to a collection agency. That collection agency, Chase and Citibank (Nate had credit cards in my name, remember?) called me every day.

Nate paid no child support, of course. He had a child support matter filed in court (the first of six), and was appealing the alimony, so would not be sending a dime while a decision or appeal was pending. Because the children and I were on public assistance, I got Legal Aid in Virginia Beach, but they would only help with the equitable distribution matter because of limited resources. On the custody/alimony/ child support matter, and the personal injury matter, I was on my own; I would have to drive six hours and represent myself.  Another lawyer in Virginia Beach was unaffordable.

Why so many matters? Why so many cases? you may be wondering. The judges found it more economical for the court to farm out the matters to multiple judges rather than one judge hearing the whole mess, since Nate files multiple motions per hearing and rants and raves for hours. Every separate matter in turn quickly became a legal swamp with its own morass of motions to respond to, discovery to answer, and subpoenas to move to quash. Litigating with Nate has always been like fighting the Hydra. You lop off one hearing but that hearing spawns three more hearings; answer one motion and get three more in the mail; quash one subpoena and get notice of three more. In Virginia, a lawyer can file his own subpoenas without going through any court, so Nate subpoenaed everything and everybody he could think of for every hearing. He quickly overwhelmed the whole judicial population of the Virginia Beach Circuit Court. The first judge, who returned Moriah to me after her dad kidnapped her out of school, stepped down after Nate filed a writ of mandamus against her with the Virginia Supreme Court.

Legal Aid got me nothing in equitable distribution except the stuff I ran away with. The judge ruled that I kept what I had in my possession and Nate kept what he had in his possession. Nate had taken out a second mortgage on our house without my knowledge, plus run up the debut on the credit cards, and so Nate persuaded the judge that in order to split the property 50/50, it was only fair that the marital debt also be divided 50/50. The judge bought this argument, and I got nothing. Not even the children’s toys.

This is going to sound idiotic but I’m going to say it anyway: even though I’m moderate now and voted for Barack Obama and probably will vote for him again, I can’t hate George W. Bush like so many of my good friends do. I detest the Patriot Act and hate the war even more, but I was on welfare with six little kids when the terrorists attacked and about to lose everything I owned in the courts. After 9/11, it was the president who gave me the reassurance that I might lose everything else—all my belongings and even eventually my children—but I wouldn’t lose my country. I’d still be American, and Americans have always been bullheaded enough to hang onto the faith that they can get free. No matter who or what is standing in the way.

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Libby Anne makes an astute point in her recent post at Love, Joy, Feminism:

Vision Forum focuses on problems in society, inflates them, and then blames feminism and modernity. Then Vision Forum seeks to fix the problems by turning back the clock to a time that never existed. The version of the past that Vision Forum sells is a myth. The problems we face in society today are not new. Substance abuse, the challenges of balancing motherhood and work, and the devaluation of women have always been with us. Looking back to some idealized imaginary past where families had no problems, mothers happily stayed home and devoted their time to raising their children, and women were valued and esteemed in return for surrendering their freedom and rights does not actually fix any problems!

For example:

A Devaluation of Women

Vision Forum speaks with disgust of the ways young women are treated today as the young men around them treat them as accessories and pressure them for sex. Vision Forum is looks in horror at the ways women are portrayed in advertising, and at the pressure to conform to some sort of perfect body image that women are faced with every day. Vision Forum is completely aware that women are devalued in our society.

Yes, be very, very horrified by that image and the accompanying text. I only show it to point out that there are real problems here. Women in today’s society are often treated as sexual objects and devalued as “blond bimbos” or “simply emotional.” But somehow, Vision Forum does not realize that the root of this problem is sexism, and instead blames feminism. Seriously,what? Feminists are not complicit in this misogyny; rather, they are working to end it. But for Vision Forum, the solution is once again not to fix the problems we face in the here and now, but to turn back the clock.

Vision Forum points back to a time when young women were valued and protected (by their fathers). Once again, this picture was never reality for more than a sliver of society. Most women were working class and fended for themselves. They lived with the reality of sexual violence and exploitation.

But there’s more to it than that. Vision Forum tells women that they can be valued and have their position in society elevated - if they surrender their rights and accept male authority. They do not see misogyny as the problem, but rather blame the way families today push their young women out of the home at age 18 and launch them unprotected into the dangers of society. Young women will be protected from the debauchery of college men, Vision Forum promises – if they stay home and obey their fathers. Middle aged women will be free from the pressure to conform to an idealized image of sexy, Vision Forum asserts – if they stay home and obey their husbands. What is this? You will be valued and protected if you surrender all your rights and obey your male authority? THIS is the solution Vision Forum offers!

Meanwhile, feminists believe that women can be valued and have equal rights. In fact, feminists hold that the key to ending the devaluation of women is not accepting women’s subordination to males but rather bringing about true equality. Accepting a second class status for women only furthers the root problem here, which is sexism and misogyny. Vision Forum doesn’t see this, because it believes that women are “weaker vessels” which need protecting. Furthermore, feminists work to fix the problems in our society today by actually working to fix them. The solution is not to turn back the clock or to ask women to surrender their rights in return for protection. The solution is to combat sexism and misogyny and work toward actual equality. But somehow, Vision Forum identifies that as the problem.

Read the full post here …

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum.  Comments are also open below.

Libby Anne lives with her husband and toddler somewhere in the U.S. She has left patriarchy for feminism and has found freedom. She is a graduate student with big plans for her life. You can read her blog at Love, Joy, Feminism.

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by Tess Willoughby

Part Two: The Legal Aftermath

I fled to the farm where I grew up and spent several weeks just trying to get the fuzz out of my head. I went to the doctor, who diagnosed Abi with failure to thrive. I supplemented her with formula but continued to breastfeed, because for once I had the luxury of breastfeeding by my own lights, and I intended to enjoy it. I moved six kids, 9 years old and under, in with my mom and dad, who were absolute angels about it.  I do not remember either of them complaining even once.

What were Tess’s long-term plans? Did I want separation? Divorce? Neither? Was God angry with me? Could I ever go back? I just stumbled through the days, utterly numb. I could not feel the presence of God, which struck terror into my heart. I could not pray, and opening a Bible freaked me out. Where had my faith gone? What did I believe? My thoughts were like muddy water that must be filtered through normality until the water runs clear. It took a long time to get clear, and in the meantime, I made a very costly mistake.

I filed for legal separation but then withdrew my action. Here is how this went down:

Nate called four or five times a day. He also sent multiple long emails every day. A few highlights:

• “I will counter-sue for divorce on fault-grounds of desertion.”
• “Venue (where the divorce will be held) is where the marital home is. You will have to travel back and forth repeatedly.”
• “I will avail myself in good faith of every legal procedure available. This means massive expense to your father. I will appeal any and all negative decisions.”
• “As I am living in the marital home, you will lose the [custody] fight. And of course, if I have the kids you will be paying me child support.”

In every email and phone call, Nate demanded that I come home immediately. In one email he made a condition: “Because of your hart [sic] heartedness and manifold sins against me, I will require that you sign an oath before God that you will submit to my authority completely, without question or dissention, and joyfully.”

Nate sent me the van in “good faith” to “work toward reconciliation,” but when reconciliation did not happen within his two-day deadline, he demanded the van back: his children’s sole transportation which was titled in his name. He threatened to prosecute me for possession of stolen property. He sued for divorce, alleging desertion and mental cruelty. He also sued as the children’s “next friend” against me for the “severe injuries” all six of them had suffered in the wreck (one child had a tiny cut above the eye). He sent my attorney dozens of faxes and called her office many times a day to run up my legal expenses. He mailed me the credit card bills which were in my name. He negotiated with my most prized possessions, using wedding gifts from my grandparents as bargaining chips. He demanded to talk to the children on the phone so that he could manipulate them into telling me to “come home.” They got off the phone and cried, saying, “Daddy is so lonely. Why did we leave him?”

Finally, Nate went bawling into the office of a pastor (not our pastor, of course) and got Rev. So-and-So to email me. Rev. So-and-So sent me the following proposition. We would declare a legal cease-fire and he would counsel with Nate. It was a terrible thing, Rev. So-and-So thought, to break up a family. He quoted the Bible on that score. He assured me that Nate was really repentant and seeking change. I did not want to even see Nate again, much less sleep with him, but I was still very deferential toward pastors and desperately wanted that legal cease-fire. I was not capable of traveling six hours to Virginia Beach for litigation. I was still very weak and confused and had six little kids to care for all summer. I felt guilty about the burden on my parents, which guilt Nate manipulated. My mother would have to take care of six kids so I could come to court and my father would have to pay the legal bills. I didn’t believe my lawyer when she said she could get a protective order that would keep Nate away from me and the kids, or that we would win the venue fight and I could go to court downtown, or that I would win the van in a lawsuit. Besides I had gotten a little foretaste of what even a winning legal battle with Nate would cost in time, money, and aggravation. Nate did nothing, it seemed, but sit at the computer churning out emails, letters, and legal papers around the clock. Some of the emails were composed at 2:00 a.m.

I dropped the legal separation and Nate dropped the divorce and the personal injury suit. The threatening emails became relentless, saccharine declarations of undying, “unconditional” love (Pastor So-and-So must have thought the submission oath was a bad idea).

This lasted for about a week, until Nate stormed into Pastor So-and-So’s office in a rabid froth about his marital rights. Pastor So-and-So emailed me, bewildered at the dramatic change in his penitent, who not only refused to continue the counseling, but damned Pastor So-and-So to hell for refusing to help exercise spiritual discipline over his wayward wife. Pastor So-and-So warned me not to come home.

Does it sound as though I had been gone at least a year or more, given the sheer number of tactics, schemes, scams, and coercions I’d suffered through to this point?

Guess again. Nate had done all this in just shy of six weeks.

I emailed Nate and told him I wasn’t coming back. Then I braced myself. Turns out I didn’t brace myself quite hard enough for what was coming, or how quickly.

Nate showed up at 3:00 a.m. the next morning and demanded the keys to the van or he would have us all arrested. My father gave him the keys and told him to get off his property or he’d be arrested for trespassing. I was crying over the loss of the van the next day when I got word that Nate had been at the children’s school and demanded to see his children. The principal brought them to the gym for a meeting, and Nate picked up little Moriah and ran, with the principal chasing him. The principal called me and the police, and I followed my former family van out of town in my mom’s car while having a panic attack. The police pulled Nate over but then let him go, because I had no custody papers.

The police had to pick me up out of a muddy ditch where I had collapsed, weeping, as my little girl was legally abducted. In Virginia, even if you have custody (which I didn’t), any parent who has visitation rights can abduct a child from anywhere at any time, and they are guilty of, at the most, a second-degree misdemeanor. Parental kidnappers are never subject to arrest in Virginia unless they cross state lines. It is believed that most of our missing children are missing because they were abducted by non-custodial parents. When your child is abducted by a parent who has any parental rights at all, your only recourse is to file a show cause and go to court. I would have to regain custody in Virginia Beach.

I got a lawyer in Virginia Beach and filed for divorce and custody. My attorney bills went into the stratosphere within a month. As with my former lawyer, phone calls and faxes were unceasing. One Sunday afternoon my lawyer received a 52-page fax from Nate. The personal injury suit was scheduled for trial as well.

I would not see my little girl again for nine weeks.

I had landed in the hall of mirrors commonly known as the juvenile justice system, and its machinations were limited only by the time and energy of a man possessed, a man running on sheer rage. Only with me, it would never stop with juvenile court. In fact—and I’m thankful I did not know this in 2000—it would never stop at all. When Nate said he would avail himself of every legal procedure available, and appeal every negative decision all the way up, he was making the only promises to me that he’s ever kept.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum!

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by Vyckie Garrison @ No Longer Quivering

Do you remember when it first dawned on you that your relatives are all a bunch of crackpots and weirdos?  Seems like I was around 8 or 9 — my mother worked all night in the casinos and slept most of the day, leaving me alone to protect my naïve older sister from the depraved advances of Mom’s alcoholic boyfriends and worry about my big brother’s drug addiction. I couldn’t count on my grandparents to help — they were too preoccupied with their own divorce, dating, and remarriage dramas.

“Holy sugar,” I thought to myself, “these people are seriously messed up!”

That’s about the time the fantasies began.  My home, I imagined, was a three-ring circus — and my relatives were the freaks and the clowns.  In my daydreams, I was not really one of them.  No — surely, I was of aristocratic origin.  My REAL family were royalty in a faraway Kingdom and I was born a beloved Princess in a fancy castle with many servants and my own Fairy Godmother.  Somehow, I’d been separated from my blood kin as an infant — I was captured by gypsies and sold in a black market adoption — that’s how I ended up being raised by this group of crazies!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ABC’s Primetime Nightline recently aired a segment featuring the Gil & Kelly Bates family — a conservative, Evangelical mega-family of twenty.  The Bates, who are close friends of JimBob & Michelle Duggar of TLC’s “19 and Counting” fame, hold to the extreme fundamentalist ideals of the growing “Quiverfull movement.”

During the one-hour special, Gil, Kelly, and their children explained the family’s lifestyle which, to all modern appearances, represents a throw back to the imaginary 60′s-style “Leave It to Beaver” family combined with strict, Victorian Era sexual mores and the atavistic gender roles of ancient goat-herders. The Bates eschew all forms of birth control and adhere to the marriage model of the biblical Patriarchs — with Gil as family leader and Kelly as submissive “help meet.”  Kelly and the girls adorn themselves in modest, hand-sewn dresses, while Gil and his clean-cut sons teach bible study and participate in local Tea Party politics.

Aren’t they lovely?  Don’tcha wanna be just like them?

I sure did!  I left home at 15 and embarked on a quest to recreate my long-lost perfect, happy family — my REAL courtly family, where I truly belonged.  After a false start involving marriage at 16, a baby at 19, and divorce after seven years of abuse rivaling the most astonishing freak show acts Mom’s circus family had ever performed — I remarried, found a “bible-believing” church, and worked hard within the Quiverfull counterculture to implement the best of the best biblical family values into our home life.  I had six more children. I homebirthed, homeschooled, and home-churched. I submitted to my husband and joyfully sacrificed my time, energy and talents to build him up and help him to succeed.  I published a “pro-life, pro-family” Christian family newspaper to inform and encourage other Christians to defend “Traditional Family Values.”

In 2003, we were honored as Family of the Year at the Nebraska Family Council’s “Salt & Light” awards. I’d finally made it! I had built my own Magic Kingdom where my husband reigned as King and I was his Queen, the children were our loyal subjects and we could all live happily ever after …

Like the Bates family, we were the perfect picture of the “biblical family values” fantasy — an idealistic vision of big, happy families: devoted husband and wife surrounded by a passel of respectful, obedient children — we were all sweetness and smiles.  It is this mesmerizing dream world which energizes and motivates Tea Party Republicans like Rick Perry and Michele Bachmann to work tirelessly to implement the “pro-family” theocratic agenda into every aspect of American society: not only in politics, but religion, family, media, education, business and entertainment.

Fundamentalist Christians are convinced that contemporary American society is the World’s Most Spectacular Display of hideously mutated, diseased and anomalous freaks.  ”Step right up folks!” the preacher yells, “and witness a grotesque parade of ho-mo-sex-uals, lesbians, Wiccans, radical feminists, godless liberals, secular humanists, and …” (congregation gasps!) “Muslim extremists!!”

Simultaneously fascinated and horrified, respectable religious parents scramble to shield their innocent children’s eyes and ears from the depravity and corruption of “The World.”  They homeschool and form special Chastity and Creation Science clubs designed to insulate and isolate their vulnerable young from the miscreants and most depraved elements of popular culture.

It’s completely understandable and normal for preteens to create imaginary worlds — their own private, safe hideout where they can dream of nobility, of rising above and doing so much better than the clowns running the Big Top’s Museum of Mutantstrosities.  The grown-ups watch in silent, knowing amusement as kids disavow their relatives as “psychos” and “bozos.”

But when otherwise responsible, Christian adults in recent years set out on a mission to create a radically distinct way of life based on “biblical family values,” the resultant countercultural movement known as “Quiverfull” has become an all-too-real Hall of Mirrors horror show.

In my own life, perpetual pregnancies destroyed my health, and my indiscriminate acquiescence to my husband’s every whim transformed him from a loving father into a tantrum-throwing tyrant. Burnout and disillusionment led to abuse, neglect, family disintegration and a particularly nasty divorce.

When the dust settled, I took a good look at myself in the mirror.  I could no longer deny the strong family resemblance — I saw my mother in my own face staring back at me.  After all those years of fighting and denial, I had to finally accept the fact that I really am one of them — I belong to these crazy people.  I, too, am a conspicuous oddity — a bizarre spectacle and an embarrassment to my own noble children.

Funny thing is … these days, I don’t mind so much being associated with my misfit clan of circus freaks.  Life experience has given me perspective and a deep appreciation for the inevitable realities and desperate circumstances which deformed and mutated Mom and the rest of us into shocking and extraordinary creatures worthy of society’s disquietude and awe.

Black market adoption fantasies and youthful idealism are important wayposts on the journey to adulthood.  Rebellion against blatant injustice, hypocrisy, moral compromise and the myriad of other common grown-up failure is a healthy manifestation of a kid’s personal power and strong moral agency.  Arrogant and annoying, yes — but in moments of truth we have to admit, the kid’s got a point.

Society sucks.  Bigotry, racism, inequity, corruption, greed, depravity, malevolence, and all manner of evil abound. Let’s just face the fact that in many ways, the contemporary American social and political scene has devolved to become the World’s Greatest Freak Show.

No wonder Tea Party Patriot families like the Bates and the Duggars escape into their own personal fantasyland.

Ironically, with maturity comes humility — along with a profound sense of connection and belonging to that wacky bunch of buffoons who share our DNA.  We see our people with new eyes.  Sure, Grandma’s got a beard and Uncle Stan is a charlatan — Aunt Betty’s such a lunatic, she may as well have two heads.  But in the end, they’re all we’ve got.  That perfect, royal family whom we imagined searched frantically for us for years and never gave up hope that one day we would return to our true home?  They’re not real.  Cousin Roger is real — never mind that he doesn’t have a lick of sense and the only thing he’s good for is shoveling elephant shit — he’s the one who truly understands you, knows all about you, and loves you anyway.

Tea Party family values are the fundamentalists’ desperate attempt to deny their own imperfections, vulnerability, and their inescapable mortality.  Sure it hurts that they look down on us regular folk — those of us who make no pretense of actually having our acts together — they avoid being seen out in public with us, they disown us, and they shrink away in fear of catching our cooties.

But take heart — perhaps they’ll grow up.

I did.  Not saying I don’t still sometimes get all starry-eyed and visionary over the possibility of influencing our society for the better — I’ve got a bit of spunk left in me and I’m doing what I can to stick it to The Man.  But I no longer think of myself as qualitatively different or “other” than all the rest of my fellow human beings — my family.  My freakish, crazy, wonderfully imperfect people.

I don’t believe in God anymore, but I still have faith.  I have hope and I trust that collectively, we’re all gonna make it — we are learning from our mistakes and growing more compassionate.  Our shared experiences make us wiser and I have confidence that better times are just ahead.

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by Chandra

I still remember what I was doing on Tuesday morning, September 11, 2001. It was a gorgeous morning, crisp azure sky with nothing but the blissful autumn sunshine overhead. Not even a cloud. I pulled into the church parking lot, sunroof back and something along the lines of Green Day blaring. I arrived at the office early, unlocking the door and booted my computer, prepping to attend to the stack of projects that pastors needed completing. I glanced over the counseling schedule for the day and realized that it was going to be a light day. After I had started a pot of coffee for all the guys, I went back to my desk to begin my day.

Somewhere around 9am the news came flooding into the office about the tragedies that were surrounding our eastern coast. Several key members of our church were in the air on business meetings, yet to be accounted for. My co-worker and I went to the sanctuary to pray and when I came back, my inbox said, “You’ve Got Mail” from this mysteriously attractive guy named Darren that I had met over the summer in the singles group. I was a baby, just 19 when I met him. And he was 29. But we were friends and we started an email conversation on 9/11 about the current events facing our nation. And for some reason, this conversation never stopped.

I was still living at home and I knew for certain I wasn’t about to let my parents screw up my chances at finding love and happiness. I knew I needed to leave the house before I could date, because there was no way in hell that I would ever consider courtship. My parents were so screwed up, that that model would not have worked, even though that was their clear desire for me. They wanted to be able to control whom I married so that they could continue to control me from beyond my father’s house.

I began to actively search with a dear friend for a place to rent later that same month. Things at home had grown substantially worse, if that was even possible. I was never home, often leaving early in the morning and often not returning until well past midnight. My sexy Honda became my refuge and respite from the intolerable home environment. My mom grew increasingly intrusive and controlling, opening my mail (keep in mind, I was 19), analyzing my credit card statements (again, I was 19 with a full-time job and zero overhead), my eating habits (she told me that I had bulimia- HA! I wish!), and my choice in clothing (my father told me while going to church that I looked like a prostitute).

I was told that my lack of pitching in with my hard-earned money to help out with household costs was the reason that my parents were in so much debt. I believed it, and internalized these statements, rather than recognizing that my dad’s sexual addiction was the cause of their financial state. Rather than throwing my money to them, I determined that my best option was to leave.

I was weary of trying to make things work at home, of no freedom and completely humiliating incidences. My mom would call people I was hanging out with, demanding to know where I was and when I would be home. Many times, she would be awake when I arrived home, and would begin her emotional tirades against me from the moment I stepped into the house. They never set a curfew, so I never felt compelled to keep it. Once, my mom barged in on a church single’s party, tracking down where this social gathering was. She appeared and demanded if I was there at the house. She came in, and dragged me by the hand out of this home and humiliated me in front of everyone. Again, I was 19. That was the final straw. I ripped into her, telling her how much I hated her and it was not two weeks later, that my friend and I found a condo that was offered to us by a member of the church where I worked.

I was thrilled to at last have found a place to live away from my parents toxicity! I had my little red Honda packed and ready to go weeks in advance, but I would be required to live with my parents through the holidays. My girlfriend and I were free to move in anytime after Christmas, so the day after Christmas, I planned my move. And this guy Darren, who had befriended me that autumn had the truck that I needed. I did not need help from my parents, and refused to take it. I needed to leave, flee- as far away from them as my situation would take me, and I wanted them to have no part of my new life.

I got myself moved and found my parents and my brother in my new condo, unannounced. I had forgotten to lock the door. I was more than just a little angry that they wouldn’t leave me alone, and told them to leave. This was my life, and I wanted to live it apart from them perpetrating their abuse and control on me. Little did I know what a long road I would have ahead of me in actually obtaining that freedom.

Darren and I had had an unadmitted attraction to one another that grew out of our email conversations. But my parents were weird, and he knew it, and our age differences kept us at bay. Until I moved out. The day I moved out, we had our first official date. We went out to the St. Louis Zoo, watched the polar bears, and then went to a wonderful Irish pub for lunch. We talked incessantly the entire time. Ironically, though I had a strong desire to flee my family and knew that I was abused, I still maintained that homeschooling was something that I wanted to do and I wanted to do it differently. And even more ironically, this came up in our first date, and Darren felt the same way. Funny how God works. On New Year’s Eve, we became an official couple and watched the fireworks on the Riverfront underneath the St. Louis Arch as the New Year dawned.

I had moved out of my parents’ home and got a boyfriend all in one week. And I had never been happier in my life. I refused to call my parents and I was free at last. I was so happy! For the first time in my life, I finally knew what it was like to be loved and to have the freedom to love completely. My whole life, I thought that I was some sort of freak, some degenerate pagan that was so unlovable and unlovely that God simply didn’t care about me enough to let me experience that. I believed that there was something so inherently and deeply flawed with me that no one would ever find me lovely or acceptable.

Hope sprang eternally in my heart and even though I felt this way about myself, I kept on hoping that maybe there was a chance that love could hypothetically happen to me. And even if it was a tiny sliver, I refused to snuff it out. And to my amazement, he loved me for who I was and didn’t want to change a thing about me! He accepted me just The Way I Am and it was the first time in my life that anyone had ever shown me that kind of love or compassion. My dreams were coming true, and the wounded heart inside of me was finally beginning to thaw and melt into a lovely array of blossoming fragrance.

With my continued therapist sessions, the new love in my life, and my new condo, all was well in my world. I had my cat-the only friend I ever truly had until recently, a group of besties, a wonderful job, and this amazing man (the only thing lacking was that I couldn’t wear heels around him!). My heart was happy, it was free, and it was free to be loved and to love.

Darren and I became serious with one another. But the enmeshed web that I was raised in came back to haunt me as our relationship grew to the point where we were desiring to become engaged. It was as though my parents had grown invisible fingers and knew how to have a hold on my life, and continue to control it, even though I was physically gone from their house. It’s a thing called, “spiritual molestation” according to Stephen Arterburn. I was the victim, and they were molesting me of my dignity and self-respect. Robbing me of joy. My mother had become an expert in exactly what to say and how to phrase it in order to get me to acquiesce. This time, it had to do with a guy they didn’t like. It proved that if I was going to find true love and happiness, that I would have to fight. And it was only just the beginning.

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Read all posts by Chandra!

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Yes yes, I know I said it’s about the daughters, but it’s actually about the sons too, and here’s why: Christian Patriarchy may say its about creating the perfect godly family, but, at its heart, it’s about control. Yes, that sounds kind of harsh! Let me explain.

In Christian Patriarchy, parents don’t let their children grow up and leave and make their own decisions. Instead, parents seek to control their adult children. The system only works if everyone stays in their place and does as told. The moment there is an independent thought or contrary life goal, it all falls apart.

Where do the sons come into this? It’s simple. I have brothers, and while things have been much smoother for them than they were for me or my sister, it hasn’t all been fun and games. My mother disapproves of my oldest brother because he didn’t join the military. It says something about his character, apparently. This is small hat compared to the emotional manipulation another of my brothers has experienced because my parents don’t approve of his plans for his life. Why? Because he wants to join military the wrong type of military.

This is the point I am trying to make here: the sons of patriarchy, just like the daughters, will only be smiled on so long as they believe what their parents believe and do what their parents want them to do. As soon as they have an independent thought or a contrary life plan, it’s all over.

I do have one brother who is my parents’ golden boy. Why? Because he is doing everything my parents want, and leading exactly the life they want for him, down to his chosen career path and which college he is attending. I used to be like that, basking in the glow of my parents’ approval. And then I began changing my mind on doctrinal points they considered critical and told them “no” when they told me to break up with a young man they had decided was a bad influence. I went from golden girl to outcast in one single day.

The real irony here is that both of my parents broke with their parents when they began homeschooling us. Neither set of grandparents approved, but my parents said too bad. My parents weren’t raised this way, but rather left the beliefs of their parents and started out on their own. This is actually fairly common among the parents of Christian Patriarchy. Why, then, do they refuse to let their children think and act for themselves?

Because the parents of Christian Patriarchy think they have found the perfect formula to life. They think they know everything, that they have it figured out completely. They think they hold the copyright for the definition of the word “Christian.” If you stay inside their box, you’re all right; if you step outside of it, you’re damned. It’s all about control, about keeping you on the way they think you should go.

As I watch my brother try to navigate the most trying years of a young person’s life on his own, I can’t help but shed a tear for all the sons of patriarchy. If you are one of them, let me assure you, there is nothing that will make your parents happy except doing exactly what they want. So don’t even try. Make your own life, your own way, your own decisions, your own hopes and dreams, and leave the box your parents built for you. The world is a much bigger and richer place outside.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum!  Comments are also open below.

Libby Anne lives with her husband and toddler somewhere in the U.S. She has left patriarchy for feminism and has found freedom. She is a graduate student with big plans for her life. You can read her blog at Love, Joy, Feminism.

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by Chandra

It wasn’t until this past year, while speaking to my counselor, that she looked me in the eye and asked of me, “Did you ever think to call 911?”

Something like a tidal wave went through me. I still feel like I am picking up the pieces of that.

“No,” I replied. “It never even dawned on me.”

I still don’t understand the full implications of living in such a mind-controlling cult. I really don’t. It’s…indescribable really and I often feel like a blundering, clumsy writer trying to articulate it to the outside world. The truth is that I had been trained to believe since I was six that all law enforcement was to be feared. The only authority that was to be trusted was that of a God-ordained institution: marriage, family, and sometimes, the church (if that church was legalistic or a home church). Government, social workers, doctors, lawyers, police officers…were all to be feared implicitly and never, ever trusted. I had become so trusting of my caretakers that I had turned into the girl who was ignorant of their abuse: because I had been trained to rely on them for everything.

I stumbled through the next few months after my graduation with a feeling of being a nomad, feeling like I was waiting for a game of chess to end, but somehow the game continued to be sustained by a few pieces. In retrospect, I see how certain events were orchestrated to my benefit, leading me slowly into the path of freedom. Even in June, after I had graduated, I was still weak and sickly from my previous pneumonia and ARDS. I got tired very easily, and frequently felt short of breath. I was also depressed. After all, I was a newly graduated senior and I was without friends. It had been well over four years since Hannah and I had last spoken to one another and probably about a year at that point since we had seen each other. Still, somewhere in my heart there was a longing and an aching for the hope that we could renew our once precious and sisterly friendship.

In truth, I had never had another friend like her. We were more alike than not, even in the way the thought about life. What I didn’t understand, even at nearly eighteen, was that we were both cut from the same cloth: brainwashed, controlled, and manipulated. Because our parents were the best at manipulating and “raising godly daughters as a heritage unto the Lord” it was a very natural thing that we would approach the world in the same way. But at almost eighteen, I didn’t understand that. All I knew was that there was loneliness, an aching, a void, a starving and thirst for human companionship and the sisterhood of true friends.

After I graduated, I received a sizable amount of cash, and combined with money that my grandparents had generously gifted me with over the years, this allowed me to purchase my first car. My dad actually spearheaded the entire purchase of the car. I purchased my first car when I was 18: a 1993 Red Honda Civic, with all the bells and whistles. I loved that car! It was the best thing that had happened to me in nearly seven years. I would drive with the sunroof back, the stereo blaring and loved the feeling of burning rubber. This car held out its metaphorical hand to me, encouraging me to embrace the freedom of my future. And I took it.

I began to look for a job, since going to college was completely out of the question. I was actually encouraged to get a job, because I was “creating a strain” on the family budget, according to my mom. My parents lived frugally, but they were always in massive debt, something that I did not understand. I saw how little they spent on us kids (my grandparents bought all of our clothing and they spent next to nothing on our education), and I saw how much my mom did without. My dad’s profession was a white-collar one, and even though he was largely unsuccessful at what he did, he did not make bad money. With only two kids to support, their lifestyle and the debt to which they incurred did not match. But as I aged, and especially when I began to work, I was made to feel like a financial burden if I did not help out with purchases around the home.

There were several of these arguments, where my mom would take out her frustration on their financial situation on me- blaming me that I was the reason why the family was in so much debt. Given everything that they had put me through in my short life, I believed her and internalized these perceptions.

I was desperate for friendship, and since I had a car, I sought it in every way possible. I really only had one dear friend at this time, who was two years younger than me, Dani (You can read about her story here). I was in her family’s home as much as I was able. I had no other friends in the homeschooling arena, since all had long since shunned and abandoned me year’s prior.

Since I was 14, my family had attended a large, suburban church. This was something that Candi hated and sought to actively undermine my mother’s commitment to the church whenever she caught a whiff that my dad was influencing her to become more active with church and less active in the homeschooling Movement. Without fail, she was successful. Her charisma and powerful sway over my mom’s thinking prevented me from becoming involved in church youth groups, activities, or even Sunday school.

According to Candi, it was fine that we attended church, as long as my parents didn’t hand over the responsibilities of training their precious children into the hands of the youth group or youth pastor. We attended Sunday school with my parents, which was incredibly humiliating and of course any other social activities were out of the question, since we were leaders in The Movement. I hated the way that they treated the church- like it was something to be afraid of. They were terrified of me learning things and inappropriate ways of relating to guys in the youth group. Mom and Dad viewed the kids in the youth group as being worldly and bad influences. They were also terrified that I might start to think for myself.  The youth pastor, on one occasion, met my mom and me outside the sanctuary after service. He was incredibly gifted with perception and sensitiveness to the needs of adolescents. He asked my mom if I could come to Sunday school that day and my mom coldly shot him down with a glare, telling him that it was her responsibility to “teach and train her children.” He shot me a glance of, “I’m sorry, I tried,” as I returned his gaze with something that probably spoke volumes of my depression and unhappiness.

Somehow throughout the years, my family continued to attend church. After the encounter with our youth pastor, I knew that there were people who were watching our family, and knew that they were extremely enmeshed, unhealthy, and controlling.

For a few years, the sole motivation to attend there was because as members, we could request the facility to use for our State Homeschool Convention. And with the purchase of my car, and my recent graduation from the homeschool world, there was no way that my mom or dad could keep me from seeking authentic relationships through church, which is something that I had very much longed for. I tentatively began to stretch my wings.

I signed up to become a staff member at our church’s nursery. It was a paid position, but it felt like a safe place to begin to seek out relationships. I have always loved little ones, and my level of commitment to them soon brought me into more babysitting jobs than I knew what to do with. This was a blessing, as I was still living at home. I could be gone for hours on the weekends, away from the toxic environment in my home. Within a couple of months, God answered a prayer that I had been praying faithfully and unceasingly for: a friend.

I was asked to join a tiny group of about four girls for a college girl’s bible study. I jumped at the opportunity and within a few short weeks, these girls became the sisters that I had been praying for. To this day, though scattered to all corners of the United States, we remain the closest of friends. These girls had something I longed for: peace in their hearts and an enthusiasm for Christ. They all grew up in public or private schools and yet they were more real, more accepting, more authentic and more fun than any other person that I had met in my narrow circle. Hardly a day goes by that I do not thank God for at least one of them. They met me where I was at, welcomed me, and loved me for who I was. It was the first time that I had ever experienced that kind of acceptance from anyone and it did my broken heart amazing wonders.

I increasingly became more and more involved in the church, and because my parents were consumed with trying to control me through over-involvement in my life, they decided that it would be a good idea for them to start as well. The business executive at our church understood this and approached my mom to ask her if she would consider letting me interview for a full-time staff position in the church office. He knew that if he asked me without their approval, it would never happen. God proved himself to me yet again, when my mom amazingly consented.

I started within a few short weeks, and was quickly busier than I had been in years. The main part of my job was assisting the counseling staff with their clientele and developing their programs. I was encouraged to read everything that they recommended to clients, and I met with the counselors once a week. This soon grew into personal counseling for me, which I actively pursued. I understood that I had much that needed working through and understanding before I would ever consider becoming someone’s spouse.

This job was nothing short of a gift. Not only did it provide me with the healing that my heart so desperately needed, it also provided me with the income that I needed in order to leave my parent’s home. One of the other girls in the bible study was ready to move out of her parents place, and together we began searching for a place to live. It all seemed so simple: get a car, get a job, move out. But there were two things that I had not planned on: falling in love and just how deep the clutches of control my parents had over me were.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum.

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by Libby Anne

Finally, I found that banning abortion did not make it any less rare, but simply led to illegal abortions harmful to women. In fact, I learned that abortion is actually most rare where it is most legal – in Western Europe. The key to decreasing abortion, I found, was not picketing abortion clinics or banning it in the legislatures. It was widespread birth control. I was completely confused.

And suddenly, I realized something. I had been taught to be a critical thinker, but I had never questioned the beliefs my parents taught me. And I realized that if young earth creationism, the infallibility of the Bible, and the importance of banning abortion, things which my parents believed in so very strongly, were wrong, than everything else they had taught me was also suspect. I also realized that I could not view the Bible as I had before, as literal truth, but must instead see it as somehow figurative, spiritual, and metaphorical.

Yet I had a more immediate problem, and that problem centered in large part on my belief in my father’s authority over me. What was I to do now that I disagreed with my father and saw him as fallible? I thought of the things my evangelical friends had said about Jesus teaching radical female equality for his time, and delved into research on this issue. I soon found that Jesus urges people to leave their parents and follow him, and that Jesus says that his followers should not marry. Similarly, Paul says that Christians shouldn’t marry unless they have to because of lust. The emphasis on forming patriarchal families simply is not there. Furthermore, Jesus urges mutual serving, not submission for some and authority for others. None of this sounded like the Christian Patriarchy I had been taught. The only question, then, was what to do now.

Discuss this post on the NLQ forum!

Libby Anne lives with her husband and toddler somewhere in the U.S. She has left patriarchy for feminism and has found freedom. She is a graduate student with big plans for her life. You can read her blog at Love, Joy, Feminism.

Read all posts by Libby Anne!

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