Weary Fighter
The fear of stepping beyond my faith, the exhaustion of staying, and the slow-building anger toward the church that was pushing me to listen to the fighter I thought I’d lost.
The letter
What do you mean the church isn’t my friend? That it doesn’t have my best interests at heart? That can’t be. I mean, Elder Uchtdorf calls us “dear friends” and President Monson used to wiggle his ears and tell all the members he loves us. Elder Nelson says he prays for us all every day. The leaders pray for my happiness and eternal salvation and hope that I will hold to the iron rod with all my might, mind and strength.
And what about all the good people in all the wards I’ve been in? Young Women’s leaders, RS ladies, bishops, roommates, ward members and mission companions who showed me love with their hugs, handshakes and cute inspirational handouts? Surely they have my best interest at heart. They have been and are my friends.
So much good has come into my life because of the church. Best friends, family, the serenity and refuge in the temple, spiritual experiences, my mission, my college education, guidance about positive ways of living, meeting my husband in the young adult ward, a connection with God, serving others and being the recipient of service. So how could this thing be both a great blessing in my life but not my friend?
Excerpts from Josh’s brutally honest email:
I know this is going to be hard to hear, but I have to say it. The Mormon church is not your friend, and they don’t have your best interests at heart. Every time they respond to your concerns and pleas for compassion and understanding with anything other than complete accountability, full-throated sorrow and amends, and meaningful change, they are gaslighting you. They are spiritually abusing and traumatizing you and other good-hearted members by forcing you to cut off and exile the part of your soul that is willing to stand up to them and hold them accountable.
I don’t mean to attack or disrespect anything about the church that is a positive to you - I know there is a lot. The critical distinction I’m trying to make is between the church as an organization - its leaders and policies and history - and the church as a community and connection to spirituality.
It makes me FURIOUS to see them continue to treat you like this! Shame on them for not listening to you, and to the countless others who have cried out from the depths of despair for healing and comfort, only to be gaslit, brushed off, and blamed.
Everything good in your life that you believe came from being a member of the church actually came to you through other channels, and they just steal all the credit. All the good experiences with family, friends, and leaders, and kids in the church come from the innate goodness of decent people… and came from the real thing - the Universe, the divine, nature, people, art, love, and fully feeling.
Josh’s email was about 5 ½ pages long, a total of 3677 words. He has always been a little long-winded in his writing.
I felt it so deeply that I had to put it down for a few days, think about it and pick it up again later.
Josh’s writing reflected much of what I had been feeling - that the top 15 were subtly yet repeatedly gaslighting me and so many other members:
Shrugging off our concerns and questions.
Avoiding taking accountability for the harm, and blaming members for bringing it up.
Changing the church history narrative and telling us it’s always been that way.
Telling members to give Brother Joseph a break.
Making light of women who worry about polygamy.
Saying everything will all work itself out in the eternities. Don’t worry about the things that don’t make sense now.
Teaching that you’re having a hard time, it’s because you’re not praying or reading scriptures enough.
Reminding us that God loves everyone but will only shower blessings upon you if you are obedient and worthy.
The prophet speaks to and for God. But that one thing he said is just his opinion. And after five million talks about how the prophet is the most wonderful being on the face of the planet, they say he’s fallible, and we’ve told you this all along.
So yeah, during this time of my greatest internal suffering, the church was not my friend.
On September 21st I wrote in my journal:
I fear asking for a priesthood blessing or reading the scriptures or a talk because I’m afraid I won’t be listened to. I’ll just be chastised. I want comfort. I want to feel that God hears my concerns without saying, yes, BUT you need to be doing this and that. I want validation. I want comfort for my tender heart. I want compassion.
I’m scarred from the church abuse and manipulation and gaslighting.
What I wanted and what I needed was to have loving arms wrapped around me to tell me I would be okay. That these struggles are actually a normal part of life development. That it’s okay to question, to ponder, to disagree. That my questions weren’t because I was a faithless, lazy sinner.
I withheld a lot of my feelings about the church from my friends and family members. I didn’t want to offend my mother, siblings and friends who are strong believers in the church. I was afraid they would think I was just being too unreasonably upset about everything. I didn’t dare speak up in church for fear of being labeled as that contentious troublemaker who brings up difficult topics and makes the Spirit leave the room. And then of course I had nightmares about having to meet with the bishop or stake president and being seen as some kind of apostate.
I knew that anger is a messenger, a signal that something is wrong, but I had no idea what to do with this anger towards the church. Was I supposed to deny it, bottle it up, and repent for my harsh feelings about the church? Become a kind of vocal activist for change in the church?
In his email Josh reminded me of what he saw in me: my power, spirituality, empathy, beauty, fight for justice and equity. Things that I hadn’t really thought about myself but were surely making their way to the surface.
The woman you are becoming is a strong, compassionate, visionary leader and a fierce defender of people who get looked down on and hurt. I love those qualities in you! You grew up to be a protector and a Mama Dragon to some of the most tender hearts in the world. But I know you have your own hurts and wounds, and I know what it’s like to be a “fragile guardian” - a proud and fierce advocate that nonetheless has conflict and uncertainty within.
I am so proud of that fierce part of you that dares to get angry with them, and who looks for ways to express her anger. Keep working on that! You’ve got to express it, to get it out, rather than keep it inside.
I could feel the fierce fighter rising up inside of me. She wanted to be known. But Righteous Rachel was really getting in her way.
Fighter
As a kid, I was a tomboy with a kind of toughness that comes from being a feral child in the 70s. When I wasn’t in school, I played outside. Riding bikes, climbing trees, doing cartwheels off the old picnic table. All that came with stubbed toes, bee stings and scraped knees. At school, I liked getting competitive on the soccer field with the boys during recess and I liked feeling strong as I beat the socks off anyone who dared challenge me at tetherball.
Although I think I was mostly easy going, there was a fighter in me.
One time in second grade a girl in my class got mad at me and told me to meet me in front of her house to fight after school so she could beat me up. I agreed, thinking I could easily take this girl. As I walked over to her house, her dad was out in the front yard, egging us to get on with the fight. But just as soon as I showed up, took my back pack off and tightened my fist, he called the fight off and said something about fighting not being worth it. I like to think he knew I could beat up his daughter. That’s the story I tell myself.
I got in a fight once with a friend about the tetherball rules. She pushed me so I pushed her back. I got in trouble with the teacher and had to sit in time out once we were back in the classroom. I remember feeling sorry that I hurt my friend but strangely proud of myself for fighting back. And there was this strange pride about getting in trouble, being the rebel, a rule breaker.
Somewhere in time part of that fighter in me was buried.
When I was about 11 years old, I got a new Springfield News paper route in the neighborhood of our new house on D Street. I had been delivering papers for two years by then, and had my system of bagging the papers into plastic bags and stuffing them into the pouches of the canvas delivery bag. I can still remember the smelly newspaper scent of that bag. A few days each week, I loaded up the delivery bag, hopped on my bike and made my way through the route, putting papers into blue boxes or tossing them on porches. I faced a lot of challenges on my paper routes: delivering in the pouring rain, collecting money from customers in cigarette smoke-filled homes, creepy people, and those darn snarling Doberman pinschers at that one house on D Street. (I am still a little scared of Dobermans to this day).
But what I hated the most were the bullies: kids who teased or yelled at me as I delivered papers. On this new route, the bullies were my age and lived on F Street. On almost every delivery day, when I rounded the corner by their house, those boys were outside playing, and they got their jollies, as my mom would say, by harassing me every time I came by. They were relentless and it seemed to be getting worse - from just teasing words to cussing at me, blocking my way or trying to push me off my bike. Each time I got away, but it was both scary and annoying.
One day, I was delivering papers as usual, when the boys again made fun of me, cussed me out and tried to push me off my bike. Well, I had enough. I pushed their bikes back, cussed at them, and told them to leave me alone. And they backed off. I felt pretty proud of myself. I stood up to those turds.
Later on at dinner time, I told my parents about the confrontation, that I made those bullies go away by pushing back, and revealed that I had cussed, too. In our household, swear words were a big no-no. A wash-your-mouth-out-with-soap infraction and a personal affront to God himself.
My dad told me to get my jacket, that we were going over to those boys’ house. At first, I thought, “Yeah!! My tough, buff dad is going to tell them to leave me alone!” But as I struggled to keep up with my dad’s long strides on the walk to their house, he told me we were going over there to apologize. Wait, what? Why? Because you pushed those boys and cussed at them. But I was defending myself! One girl against two boys! But Dad was adamant that I apologize. I could hardly believe what was happening. Couldn’t he see how difficult those boys made my life every day? And some of the things they said to me scared me half to death?
We got to their house, knocked on the door, and the boys’ father opened the door. My dad explained that I was there to apologize to the boys for pushing and cussing at them. I remember the boys and the dad looking a little puzzled and a little afraid at the dominating presence of my father. In my embarrassment, anger and shame, I managed to apologize for my actions. And then we walked home. I don’t remember if any words were spoken between my dad and me on the way home, but I was mad. And ashamed, confused and defeated.
I think I lost a bit of my fighter Rachel with that experience.
I learned that night that not cussing was more important than sticking up for myself. That being Christlike meant being meek and letting people abuse you. Don’t stick up for yourself. Jesus didn’t. He just let those mean guys spit on him, beat him, and nail him to a cross. So I was supposed to do that, too.
I became more meek, and honestly carried that almost as a badge of honor. Look what a good girl I was being because I wasn’t disagreeing or questioning or causing trouble.
The fighter in me was starting to shrink. She gradually became quiet. She learned not to fight back. She didn’t speak out when she was mistreated. The fighter that had been instilled in me as a child, playing independently in the neighborhood, was crushed.
I don’t like to admit it, but I let people walk all over me for many years, in various situations. Rude teachers. Classmates who made fun of me. Inconsiderate strangers. Obnoxious customers. Toxic coworkers. I put up with so much crap and didn’t know how to set boundaries. I quit playing the violin after the 6th grade because my orchestra teacher teased me so much. One time my boss called me a derogatory name and I didn’t do anything.
In my relationship with the church for the past 10 years, it was worse than being walked on. It was more like being in the boxing ring with them, just continuing to take hits, over and over again. Stumbling around with a black eye and fat lip, with no one else to call off the match.
Battle-worn
So now, back to 2021, I could feel the fighter in me coming back. She was angry. She was mad at how she and others were being treated. Rachel the Fighter was trying to break free of restrictions, of things that just didn’t sit right. She wanted to speak out, saying her concerns and ideas are valid and should be respected and heard.
But this caused a real internal battle. Being quiet and obedient had become part of my identity. There’s a certain reward for being a “good daughter”, a meek one. It felt good to be praised for my agreeable personality. If I rebelled against that identity, I risked everything: the approval of my parents, friendships with church members, my membership in the church, my standing before God, and tragically, my marriage.
I was extremely conflicted and agitated. I didn’t know what to do with all of this. So in addition to painting, I did what I felt was somewhat safe: I wrote. Journal entries, scripture study notes, support group posts, letters -some sent, others unsent. I wrote about the church’s teachings about LGBTQ+ people, spiritual trauma, the need for spiritual support, and the great dilemma I was having about disagreeing with the church but being afraid of it.
What happens when you are continually carrying so much internal conflict on top of relationship stress? When you feel that fighter in you but it is all so overwhelming?
I got so very tired. So weary of it all.
On September 9th I wrote:
I’m tired of everything. I feel like a dam in my soul has been broken and all my pain, frustration, discomfort, anguish, trauma, etc.. is pouring out.
Feel ashamed of being broken, not stoic and strong. I’ve hid my weakness for my whole life.
I want to be heard and validated by God.
Pressure to be perfect.
Tired of feeling like the only one in our family with concerns about our family life and the church.
Is God so limited that he can only handle one binary way of thinking about gender?
Tired of not knowing what my own voice is. Always wondering if I”m following my own intuition or the spirit or the devil. What is my own intuition? Who am I?
Tired of church restrictions.
Tired of church and spiritual conflict.
Tired of mental health challenges of depression, anxiety, ADHD, and scrupulosity
Tired of struggling, constantly pressured to strive strive strive.
Tired of being a pushover.
Want spiritual freedom but even as I say that I wonder if that want comes from the adversary. Because rules and commandments.; Because every blessing comes from obedience to God’s law.
Church gaslighting, conflict and bearing down on obedience to the prophet. Tired of getting my connection with God through 15 men.
Tired of feeling like my spiritual struggles and problems with the church are because I’m not faithful enough and I’m going astray and I’ll be damned. I just need to fall in line and keep my head down.
I was so very tired, but my battles weren’t even close to being over.