*Trigger Warning – religious and sexual abuse content*
A great mentor, and amazing therapist reminded me that when
it comes to overcoming the impact of trauma, I should “Never stop talking about
this. Never stop talking about it until it’s a story, not an experience”.
I used to detach myself and become emotionally dead when talking about my
experiences. As a therapist, I’ve now learned and even seen the harm caused
when we avoid and suppress our feelings, rather than face them. So, in an attempt
to share a story without re-experiencing it like a PTSD flashback… The image
posted here is an excerpt from an online community of current and former
Mormons.
For those who never went into a Mormon temple to receive
their “Washing and Anointing” I should clarify the officiants did not directly
touch my genitals, but instead touched my inner thigh, my chest, and other
parts of my naked body. This ordinance was an essential rite of passage I had
to endure before I was allowed to serve my church as a missionary for two
years.
That afternoon, as I received my endowment and sacred Mormon
garments (the special Mormon underwear people talk about), I remember seriously
considering walking out of our most sacred building. I was 18 and was not told
what was going to happen to me, because keeping it secret kept it “sacred”. Because
I was fasting, I hadn’t eaten or drank anything since the night before.
When the attractive man at the desk handed me some cloth and
told me to remove all my clothing and put on my “shield”, I thought he had
given me my first sacred garment. When I unfolded it and realized it was a
single sheet of cloth with a hole for my head, I became extremely confused and
honestly very frightened. It was more revealing than a hospital gown!
I had
been told that “Satan isn’t allowed in the temple and can’t tempt us”, but as I
tried to understand why this attractive man behind a desk told me to remove my
clothes and put on my “shield”, I felt a familiar and unwelcome homosexual attraction
to him. This desire, of course, was a grave sin. Did I somehow bring Satan into
my Heavenly Father’s temple? Was I somehow not ready for this? Why didn’t my
bishop protect me by using his special powers of discernment, he should have known that
I wasn’t ready. Had I actually been lying to my bishop and to myself that I was
“worthy”? Which commandment had I missed?!
I put on my shield, but before I could leave my stall to join
the line of other young men waiting to receive their washing and anointing, I had
to wait for my... very obvious arousal to go away. I quoted scripture to myself
until I felt confident that I wouldn’t be discovered. Can you imagine what
mental gymnastics I, a closeted gay 18-year-old man, had to contort myself with in order to
stand next to other naked men without becoming aroused? Could you do this? Could
you ever forget it?
As I stood panicking in that line, I could overhear soft whispers from the men
ahead. I can vividly remember the catatonic fear I felt all over when I deciphered
that a temple worker was going to touch me. I agonized over the thought that
whoever would be touching my naked body might be someone attractive. My internalized
homophobia was so intense that I assumed if anything went wrong it would have
been my fault. I knew that it would prove my deepest fear, that I was a dirty
homosexual unworthy of God’s love, and worse that the entire temple would probably
have to become rededicated all over again because of the filth that I brought
into God’s house. Fortunately, the temple worker that day was a much older man
and was methodical when he touched me.
This temple ceremony has now thankfully changed. Obedient
Mormons no longer have to be naked for their “washing and anointing”. Yet, this
change didn’t magically erase the trauma experienced by me and countless others.
Years later, when I realized that I could no longer piously call
myself a Mormon, it occurred to me that I’d have to stop wearing the holy garment,
which I had earned on the day I just described. That was one of the most painful
moments I can remember on my journey out of Mormonism. The night I realized I’d
need to remove my garment, which I had covenanted with my Heavenly Father to never remove, I fell to my
knees and cried until I finally fell sleep from exhaustion. That’s the night when
the realization of my situation truly hit me. THIS is the ultimate price I had
to pay for my decision to live with integrity. My parents considered me dead to
them, but that is the night when I lost my final connection to the only loving parent
I felt I had. My relationship to any kind of “family”, “Deity”, “religion”, or even
any kind of “spirituality” has NEVER been the same.
