Hazed Into Mormonism - The Day My Hope Died

 *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.