Page 38 of Out of the Dark

"Do you think that may be a false belief you’re carrying from your upbringing? That having difficult conversations may be a bad thing instead of acting as conflict resolution?"

Damn. She’s right. I voice my agreement, and she gives me a kind smile but continues. "As far as you worrying he’ll think you’re needy… There is nothing wrong with asking for what you want. And if you want to pursue a relationship with him, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe his desires are different from your own, and maybe you don’t end up being compatible, but that’s not your burden to bear. All you can do is make yourself heard, but if you don’t voice it, you can’t expect him to read your mind just as you can’t expect to read his."

Something clicks into place as she speaks, and I realize that, once again, she’s telling me exactly what I need to hear. When I don’t speak, she continues.

"I think you’ve become so averse to voicing your wants and needs because of the environment you were raised in, but it’s important to understand that you shouldn’t feel the need to minimize yourself to avoid potential conflict. Regardless of the outcome, you are not responsible for his reaction to you voicing your feelings."

"Thank you." It’s all I can think to say.

"No need to thank me. I’m just glad to talk through this with you, and I think you’re taking great steps to become who you want to be."

Glancing at the clock, I realize our session is already coming to an end, so I stand and sling my purse over my shoulder.

"I’ll email you those resources we talked about," Dr. Lawrence says as I make my way to the door.

"Thanks again!" I call out.

A couple hours later while I’m sitting in the school library waiting to head into my Psych class for the night, I check my email. When Mark loaned me his old laptop, I made a personal email in addition to my school one, but I can’t remember which I gave to Dr. Lawrence’s office.

I check my personal email first and find nothing important. But when I open up my school email account, it’s not Dr. Lawrence’s message that grabs my attention, it’s the one just below it with a subject line reading, "Come Home, Claire."

What the actual hell?

With shaking hands and my heart hammering in my chest, I click on the email.

"Please come home, Claire. We miss you. We understand that you’ve been tempted, but it’s never too late to repent and return home where you belong. We will forgive you for abandoning us, just as God will.

‘For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.’

-Romans 3:23

‘For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.’

-Romans 10:13"

A million thoughts race through my head at once. One of my family members clearly sent this, but which one? And more importantly, how did they get this email address? What if they find me?

The guilt crashes on my chest as I imagine my younger sister being the one who sent the email. She’s the only one I truly feel guilty about leaving behind because she’s the only other one I could imagine feeling the same way as I do about life at home.

But ignoring the fact that my sister likely would have no means of emailing me, the guilt trip disguised as concern has the markings of my mother all over it. I know her intentions are in the right place—it’s kind of hard to blame her for worrying when she’s fully convinced I’ll be damned to hellfire for eternity—but she’s always been too intent on smoothing things over, especially when it comes to my father’s anger.

My older siblings seem to have taken the same path as her, placating my father and trying to be the best they could in my parents’ and the community’s eyes. For my sisters, that meant dedicating their lives to having babies and being subservient housewives who couldn’t possibly think for themselves, andfor my brother, it meant becoming an important figure in the church.

I decide that not replying is the best action to take. She can email me all she wants, assuming it is my mother, but she’ll have no way to argue if I give nothing in return. I refuse to let myself be guilted into going back. But even more than that, I refuse to go back to hiding behind a mask, being the pliant girl with a fake smile eternally plastered on in the hopes that hiding my misery will earn me a spot in Heaven.

My thoughts are still spinning as I make my way to class and take my usual seat. Between my talk with Dr. Lawrence today and this strange email, so many memories are flooding back.

The word "cult" threw me for a loop in therapy earlier, but the more I think about it, the more I feel it might fit.

I open up a Google search and type in "signs of a religious cult." The results that pop up make my stomach churn, and each link I click on gives more proof that I’ve been living in something so much worse than I realized.

Isolation from people outside of the organization and punishment for leaving.

Unquestioning loyalty to the leader and/or the cause.

No tolerance for criticism or questioning; discouraging critical thinking.

Using interpretations of religious texts to invoke fear and manipulate members.

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