Sexual Abuse and the Mormon Church

While in a group therapy for sexual abuse, our leader suggested when we went to church on Sunday (this was a Mormon group with a Mormon hierarchy leader), we not put on our "happy Sunday go to meeting faces" but rather when people asked us how we were to "throw up all over them". This meant that we revealed our sexual abuse. I soon discovered that people weren't really interested. When they asked how we were, they wanted the traditional "fine" or "great" answer. They didn't want to know any of our history. And if you tried to tell more than fine, they made excuses to leave.

I had learned to stuff my feelings early on in life and not to admit to any of my abuse history. It just didn't bring good results. For instance, when I told a 21-year-old about the lifeguard raping me (when I was 12 and working at a resort), she told me if anything was happening, it was my own fault. I quickly learned it wasn't safe to tell anyone. She, however, told the lifeguard what I had said, and he later confronted me and threatened me all the while continuing to abuse me.

When I was an adult and had nine children (several already married), I was teaching a women's group in our church. As I prepared for my lesson one week, I kept getting an inner nudge about revealing my sexual abuse to the women. I kept shrugging it off knowing it wasn't safe to bring up such a subject. As Sunday morning arrived, the feeling persisted and kept getting stronger. I finally said to the inner voice "if I feel this deep impression at the end of my lesson, I will". I was somewhat nervous after having committed to breaking the barriers I had perceived in the past from such revelations.

I was more nervous than usual as I stood to give my lesson that morning. The lesson went well, and as I was closing, that inner voice reminded me of my pledge. I stopped speaking momentarily while having an argument with that inner voice. I hesitated slightly, and then in about three simple sentences revealed my abuse which included a family member as a child, the lifeguard when I was 12, and my seminary teacher/principal as a teenager.

The room was instantly deafeningly quiet. I closed my lesson and sat down. I felt the heavy penetration of that silence. A closing prayer was said. I sat still for a moment, but no one approached me. No one said anything. The president of the women's organization and her counselors avoided me. I gathered my materials and left the room. I felt like I was wearing an "A" on my chest and everyone cowered at the sight of me. It took all my stamina and courage to walk down the hallway, admist avoided glances and whispers, and out to my car. I was so glad to drive away from the church parking lot.

I had been president of the women's organization in our church and had served in the next level of administration over a very large group of women. I knew the protocol for compassionate service to the women of the church. It had not been followed.

At home, I called my friend who knew my history and hadn't been at the meeting. She had also served as president of the women's organization. I told her what I had done that morning and asked what her response would have been if she had been president. She replied: I would have been at your house within 10 minutes following the meeting to put my arms around you, to love you, and to see what I could do to help you." I would have done the same. I had rung the neighborhood "call for help" bell so to speak, and no one had responded. I felt so unloved, so unworthy, and total rejection which was the way I'd felt most of my life.

But the worst rejection came later when I was called in by the bishop (who was the leader over our ward) and was released from my calling. I was put out to pasture. I had served in executive positions in the church for many years. I had taught the adult gospel class for men and women for 8 years. I had taught the older teens for more than 25 years. I had given my all in service to my church, and I was being deposed. It broke my heart.

After my first book was published, I traveled extensively for my church speaking at all kinds of groups from teen conferences, women conferences, adult trainings, couple's trainings,state and national conventions, to Sun City retirees. I did it all for free. Many weeks, I would speak out 4-5 times at different groups. I traveled all over the western US and Canada to speak. I was keynote speaker at most of these workshop/conferences. I had given my all to my church, and this was my reward.

I was devastated. It was the greatest rejection of my life. I didn't want to go out of my house. I didn't want to see people. I felt like I was the gossip of the neighborhood. Four months later, I approached my visiting teacher who was a religion editor for a local newspaper and also served in the presidency of our women's group. I asked why she had never mentioned my abuse. Disgustedly she replied: "I can't deal with people making things like that public". Another total rejection.

What is it that makes people think the victim is the perpetrator? I had seen instances in our church where the perpetrator was protected while a victim was not given any support. It had been difficult for me to truly believe this, but here I was experiencing it first-hand. People had no idea of the devastation to my life and existence because of my abuse, but here they were adding more affliction and abuse to my already tormented existence. How could I go on? It was a blessing in disguise when I later received a promotion at the Jewish synagogue where I worked, and I was unable to attend my Sunday meetings. But what happened then? That's when the hierarchy became concerned and called me in. They didn't care about the abuse or my years of torment and suffering, but they did care when their percentage of attendance went down when I quit going to their meetings.

I wrote this after reading Religion Dispatches article by Joanna Brooks and the story of Melanie S. who finally spoke out against the Mormon Church's prop 8 in CA. A quote from that article: “The real story for me,” she explained, “is what does a good Mormon do when you’ve prayed and you’ve gotten answers as real and strong as the answers other people have gotten, but they lead you in a different direction? It’s easy for people to say, ‘You can’t think that; you follow the prophet.’ But do you have to choose between the church you love and the inspiration you feel you are getting from an honest place?”

Melanie's story gave me the courage to speak my own truth.