A piece of mine that was featured in an online blog - Survivor Voices: A Story of Religious Abuse and Torture
By Lusciana Philomena,
I was born in 1991, USA, twelve years after my older sister, who is disabled, completely blind and has several mental issues. At one point in my adult life, my sister and I spoke in length about our abuse. At that time, I was considering doing a “no contact” with my parents. For those who don’t understand a “no contact”, this would mean I was to completely cut them off in order to preserve my mental health. Yet, speaking with my sister, I felt that I had to be careful, as she had a pattern of being in the position of “informant” for my mother. She was most often a puppet for my parents, doing as they wished and always trying to please them.
At the time my sister and I spoke so candidly about our abuse, we made a pact that we would not talk to our parents about it until I was ready. Later, I was to find out, that my sister had told my mother everything, including the details of my torture. My mother told my sister I was embellishing and lying. My sister told me she didn’t know who or what to believe. To this day, I cannot forget our conversations and the deeply traumatic recalling of how she endured night terrors of our father taking her into the church bathroom to viciously belt her. Even her voice changed as she told me this story, becoming almost childlike in her recall. My sister vied deeply for my parents’ love, even to the point of denying both of our childhood tortures.
My sister and I were often pitted against each other in many ways, such as withholding truth and twisting stories by my mother and father. The triangulation to keep us from talking made more sense to me, when my sister shared about her dreams and her own abuse. I understood why our parents never really wanted us to be close. They were afraid it would give us the opportunity to match stories, but even when we did, my sister ended up taking the side of our parents. I was left to stand alone, a solitary voice, trying to figure out why I had endured so much pain.
I spent ages infancy – 16, ranging from several hours a day to days, at my grandparents' home. Unfortunately for me, this environment was also abusive, confirming to me now, that the abuse I endured was, indeed, generational. My grandfather on my father’s side was a military man. I never got to meet my paternal grandfather, as he died before I was born. Because I was an at risk infant, I was in the hospital for 3 months before being released to go home. The man I would end up calling Grandpa was my step-grandfather. He was a horrific mentally, emotionally, and verbally abusive man. He almost killed my nephew when he was 2 years old by leaving him outside without a coat or shoes on, while it was wintertime and 10-20 degrees and snow on the ground.
My father worked on an assembly line. My mother worked in healthcare who also came from a military family through my uncles and other family members. My family only moved twice. I recall once, going with my mother to look at a house when my parents briefly separated when I was quite young. They were both part of the Assemblies of God churches for a long time before I was born. The religion they followed mirrored that of the typical, fundamentalist Pentecostal Christian household. This was my life from birth until the age of twenty-one.
After attending about fifteen churches, all seemingly different denominations, I lost count. Regardless, my parents’ consistent fall back religion was Pentecostalism. Being Pentecostal consisted of constant ritual. Not only was my life at home a strict regimen of religious adherence, the rituals of the Pentecostal belief system were brutal for me as a child. The churches practiced the "laying on of hands", which consisted of multiple people putting their hands on a subject's body and speaking in a language they called "tongues". To understand what tongues sound like I suggest that you go to YouTube, search “speaking in tongues” and view examples of this ritual. I was what they called, “being slain in the spirit”. This meant that I was being filled with the Holy Spirit, a entity that would rid me of evil and cure me of the demonic oppression and influence that they had convinced me of.
In one of my memories, a female Prophet (one of many, both male and female) had visited. After she finished her sermon, she did an altar call for anyone to come up to the front of the room. I don’t remember if she called to me directly or if I went willingly, as if called by God, but she embraced me and then put her hand on my forehead. A few more people gathered and placed their hands on my body. Other people gathered around them, creating another layer, placing their hands on the people in front of them. Soon, I was in the middle of the bulk of the congregation. Other people were running around chanting and yelling, some were weeping and some were laughing and singing. Some of them were carrying flags with symbols and running through the room. Some were rolling around on the ground. There were other people in small circles being prayed for as well. My body felt trapped inside of the herd around me, unable to escape. I felt claustrophobic and violated. I felt my mind begin to float away from my body like it does when I dissociate. Suddenly, I woke up on the sanctuary floor, my body shaking, unable to talk. I felt heavy like lead. It was as if the Prophet had infused me with the Holy Spirit and it felt like I had been taken over and I had blank space in my memory. I looked around and saw that other people had also been “slain in the spirit” as well.
I had horrific nightmares. I would lay in bed awake for hours at night praying and pleading with God to please not let Satan take me. Because of the extreme nature of the fear and torture I was experiencing, I became adept at dissociating away from my body. I was often threatened with eternal torment in a place called "Hell". I was told that I could lose my salvation and be damned. Yet, in those same breaths, I was also told how much God loved me. I could not make sense of anything around me. Many days were filled with fear, uncertainty and no safe place for me.
These methods of mind games and different techniques are often purposefully used to brainwash a human being. This type of ritual is most seen in cults and mind control type settings. These rituals and methods of teaching a child or an adult that they are both nothing and special all in the same sentence are the main tool of the Narcissist. There was intense double-binds, gossip, deceit, and trickery everywhere in my environment. I never knew who I could fully trust. I had no identity outside of what was molded and indoctrinated into me since birth. Even entertaining the idea of other ways of thinking or seeing a book that was of an other religion sent me into extreme terror. I wasn't allowed to think anything other than what I was taught or else I'd die forever. This threat and reminder was used to control me often.
Additionally, I attended a private Christian school from kindergarten until I graduated high school. No “outside world” knowledge was taught. The world was 6,000 years old, all science was from a biblical and creationist viewpoint. There was nothing outside of this reality. We were literal child soldiers for God and the end was coming where the world would be damned and followers saved. I however was always questioning my salvation. Because the school I attended was private, they were not required to adhere to the curriculum or the same child safety laws as public schools. In private school, abuse was constant. Since the belief systems were the same, they used the same methodology of punishment. Solitary confinement in an extremely small closet until I lost track of time (usually up to 3 school days), physical abuse, severe mental and emotional abuse, spiritual abuse, public shaming and humiliation, degrading remarks, inappropriate sexualization and touching of children, and isolation from other children and the outside world kept me inside of a bubble of fearful compliance. There were layers upon layers of cover-ups at that school. My mind was terrorized. I was often the focus of being targeted. I thought I was just the worst child in the school. In the beginning, I was a well-behaved child who merely daydreamed. My teachers called me “space cadet.” I believe at that time I was actually beginning to dissociate from life. Soon, I decided that since I was going to be in trouble anyways, I might as well give them a reason to punish me, so I began to act out. This at least gave me an answer as to why I was in trouble.
In my home life my father was a confusing man. He could be the most loving father and also the most brutal. We were extremely codependent and my identity was molded after him. We were extremely close, I was more like an extension of him, having little identity if my own outside of him. We did everything together. My sole purpose was him. He took me on hunting trips and we loved each other fiercely. We spent every moment we could together. We were extremely enmeshed. I have never loved anyone like I loved him. In so many ways he was the world's best father a person could ask for. I give him the credit for the genuine love he and my mother gave to me for there was much love along with the dysfunction and it was genuine. It definitely wasn't all bad. But even then, the love was dripping with conditional qualifiers.
Since this was all going on at the same time as the abuse at church and school, I tend to remember these time periods as one, long bundle of abuse. My father played with me and taught me “games” that I eventually was conditioned to ask for and enjoy. In all actuality I did partly enjoy these games. They truly did seem like games; ones that hurt and yet made me laugh. I truly believed that I was born to please my father and make him happy, protect him, and please him at all costs. I also believed that once my father died I would have nothing left to live for therefore I would have to end my life after his. I made a pact to die when he did, I was 9. I was conditioned to be my father’s puppet by him directly and his immediate family as well.
His games:
He sadistically used nerve shock torture to send neurological/electrical type currents through my body. He enjoyed a ritual of tendon and ligament manipulation where he pressed deeply into trigger points on my body. He would pull the tendon away from the muscle, grinding and twisting it between his fingers. He focused on the ones in my shoulders, my neck, behind my knees, and his favorite spot was the one between my leg and my vaginal lips. Sometimes he’d have one hand between my legs causing pain and tickling me at the same time to recreate a sensation of pain mixed with pleasure. Due to the sensual area he was touching my body would respond at times even as a child.
He also used tickle torture on me. His name for this “game” was ‘See How Long You Can Take It’. He instructed me that I was to "be a doll/robot" as he tickled me. He would use his finger tips and very light breath along with his whiskers to tickle me all over my body and in the most sensitive of places. My memory is fuzzy and there are blank spots but in this one specific instance it seems I might have been naked or just in my underwear but I cannot be sure due to the fragmentation of the memory. It is just a general sense or feeling I get from this partial memory that I may have been naked. During these sessions I was not supposed to make any noise or laugh, take any sharp breaths, or make any movements of any kind at all. If I did, his tickle torture session would begin all over again and each session grew with intensity.
Sexual abuse was also a part of my father's sadistic leanings. I don’t feel I need to go into too much detail here for it to be understood what I may have endured through grooming, groping and more. But I will say that he enjoyed humiliating me by making comments about my undeveloped breasts and buttocks. He would chase me around the house yelling “Boobies, boobies, boobies!” pretending he was going to pinch them. He would slap and pinch my buttocks and try to get me to kiss him and he would pin me down. He said, "I can touch that cute little ass any damn time I want to. Anything you do with your boyfriends you can do with your daddy." These types of violations occurred frequently. Often my mother would be in another room and would holler at us to stop “horsing around.” Sometimes I wonder if she knew and chose to be oblivious, but I may never have that answer.
Contortion torture was another form of abuse my father doled out on me. He would purposely bend my joints the incorrect way. He utilized language techniques to mentally program my mind as he sexually abused me and physically tortured me. He would rip open the shower currtain and throw ice water on me randomly as I was bathing or showering so I was always very hyper-vigilant as I didn’t know when to expect it. He and my mother both would wake me up from sleeping by pouring water over my face until I felt that I was drowning. I can recall the lights being flashed on and off extremely rapidly, causing disorientation and confusion. My mother and father would yell at me to get up for the day. They told me they used the water and lights to wake me up, stating I was a heavy sleeper. Sometimes they would be laughing at me at the same time.
My father also very frequently liked to play a “game” he called “Indian Torture” in which he would essentially perform a sternal rub on me. If you don’t know what a sternal rub is it is used by paramedics and doctors to assess the level of consciousness in unconsciousness patients by applying what they call a “pain stimulus” by rubbing the knuckles on the unconscious patient’s chest vigorously. But if you are fully awake and aware this is excruciatingly painful to bear.
He would also pull my fingers apart until it felt as if the skin between them would rip. He would instruct me to stick out my tongue; I complied like always as I was conditioned to do all that he asked of me, no question. In fact, it never occurred to me that I could say “no”. Once I stuck out my tongue he would get a towel and grab a hold of my tongue so it wouldn’t slip away and then he would pull until it felt like my tongue would rip out of my mouth. I would scream. I would shriek. The pain was so intense. He would laugh so hard. Sometimes he would walk around the house with my tongue in between his fingers and I could do nothing but follow as the pain and ripping sensation was too much bear.
My father's “games” induced severe mind-blowing pain. Yet, as an adult, I can look back and see that my body scientifically responded to the simultaneous torture and tickling and caused sexual arousal at times. I had no control over it. As an adult, this resulted in great confusion and shame inside of me for feeling any type of enjoyment, even though it wasn’t my fault. At times he whispered into my ear how much he loved me. He would call me "daddy's little girl". All of this verbal manipulation was done while he tortured me. His games included a mix of love, pain and pleasure happening all at once.
Not only did my father enact torture on me, but he allowed me to have pets that he could abuse and encouraged me to do the same. I complied with his conditioning, something that plagues me to this day, due to having flashbacks and mental images. He utilized the same method of mixed love and pain on my pets, mimicking the abuse he doled out on me. This kept me in constant states of worry, fear and most often dissociation as my mind worked overtime, attempting to protect me from the torturous environments.
I have some blank gaps so I am unsure of whether the sexual abuse my father enacted on me went further than the torturous grooming and tickle/torture sessions. I struggle with not having those answers and accepting that I may never have them. As I write out my truth, acceptance and sadness of this reality washes over me. I know I am not to blame. I was the victim of people who adhered to sadistic, religious ritual practices. Yet, at times, the self-blame emerges. The voice of my father has become my adult inner voice.
My mother was jealous of my father and me. She projected this jealousy onto me, joining my father in being sexually inappropriate with and around me. One example would be that my mother would walk around the house nude and rub herself on her private parts and breasts in a nonchalant way which made me highly uncomfortable as I grew into puberty. She had me shower with her, and both my father and mother bathed me instead of teaching me to bathe myself until I was well old enough to do so. She would cuddle and spoon with me while caressing my legs, stomach, and ribs. I have no proof she meant this as sexual, but it always gave me bad feelings inside like I was dirty. She also physically and mentally abused me at times. Both of my parents exuded narcissistic behaviors.
My father was a drinker and sleep-aid user. He would say often that he didn't remember hours of his day when he took the pills and drank alcohol together. One night when I was 20 or so, he physically and sexually assaulted with me while he was under the influence. I had to hit him in the head multiple times to get him to stop. A few years later, when I confronted him about it, he alleged he had no recollection of such incident. I reminded him he had been drinking and had taken a sleeping pill. Sometimes he used Bible verses to justify the abuse. At times, Bible verses were quoted as I was being punished with the belt until I dissociated when I was a child.
During this conversation when I confronted my father, I listened to him go from denial as he changed and kept changing his story. Finally, after I continued being persistent and gave him explicit details, he broke down and told me he was sorry. He said I was killing him, and then he hung up on me. I tried calling him back, but he would not answer. I then called my mother. I told her I was afraid that my father was going to hurt himself. I asked her if she would call him, since he wouldn’t answer my calls.
“What did you do to him?” She demanded.
I explained to her that I confronted him about my abuse, that he was upset and asked her again to call him. There was a long pause on her end.
“I’m at work and don’t have time to be bothered with all of this.” She retorted as she hung up the phone.
I stared into the receiver, shocked and helpless. Later, she called me back to tell me how upset my father was. She then proceeded to tell me how much I had succeeded this time in hurting my father so terribly. I listened as she told me they both believed I was lying. It would be a couple of months before I spoke to my mother or father again after that phone call.
My childhood abuse has had an astronomic effect on me. I endure flashbacks and complex PTSD, an eating disorder, a dissociative disorder, and fibromyalgia. I fight sleep to avoid nightmares where I see myself burning alive in hell. I am hyper-vigilant about being followed, and I often feel as though I cannot escape.
My capacity to develop my own spirituality as an adult has been severely hindered due to having a constant, tangible fear which lingers inside of me. Being an abused child left me with mental health and physical disorders. I have severe body somatic pain which can’t be associated with any one specific physical injury, leading doctors to connect my body pain to the reality of body memories.
Body memories are caused by trauma settling into our cells. Therefore, the body manifests the abuse on a daily basis, causing severe genital pain, joint and tendon pain, neuropathy that shoots nerve pain through me. The nerve pain mimics the shock rituals performed on me as a child.
My parents had their own favorite phrases.
"You're treading on dangerous ground."
"You're on thin ice."
"God is watching you."
"Satan is everywhere, waiting."
They still use these phrases in conversations with me at times, eliciting a severe post-traumatic response where I begin to feel myself dissociating from the conversation, triggered back to these phrases being used on me during my childhood abuse.
The confusion still runs deep in me because life wasn't ALL bad. Many times my parents were very loving and I was happy. Because there was so much pain and love mixed together, I never developed an identity of my own. My identity belonged to my abusers. Now, I am struggling to figure out my own identify, who I was in the womb, before I was born into a childhood of abuse and confusion. I am sifting through broken pieces to integrate them so I can get to know who I really am.
Did I gain anything positive from my experiences? Yes - I have a great capacity to understand others who have experienced torture. I know that as I continue to work through the aftermath of my own abuse, I will continue to grow and be a strong support for my fellow survivors.
I don't know if I'll even understand why I was tortured, except to understand mind control on a level so deep, a parent believes a religion justifies the abuse of their child. I want to know who trained my father to utilize such specific torture methods on my muscles and limbs. There are so many questions that leave tangled pieces in my mind. As a child my mind fragmented into “pieces or aspects” in attempt to endure what I was being put through however they have more or less integrated now. But when triggered or being abused they still will take over and take control of my/our body. I wish my parents knew how much accountability and truth would change the course of each of my days. I wonder if my paternal grandfather learned these torture methods while serving in the military, and in turn, used them on my father. Again, I may never have these answers.
And so, I must stand inside of radical acceptance and continue creating who I truly am.
ART
When art comes out of me, it can take on varying forms, depending on who is holding the pen or the paint, as you will see in the pieces below.
The balloons spell "dissociate"
"Abstract"
"Recovery"
"Where DID She Go?"
This was the first "brain map" I ever did getting to know the "aspects". This was created when I was inpatient psych ward at the age of 21, when I was first beginning to gather my “pieces”. Many more have surfaced, morphed and changed over the years, such as a sexual aspect which I will not name and child parts. But as I said, they have been dormant which leads me to think they may have integrated, but time will tell.
"Dissociated Me's"
Childhood Religious Indoctrination
POETRY
Another outlet for my pain is writing poetry. This expression has been a crucial part of my healing journey.
*Healing Under a Canopy*
Stroll through the shaded wood I must;
Liniment for a marred soul.
In love with the seclusion it offers;
I yearn for the peace it brings.
Amble about in nature's song
I stroll along to such sounds:
Singing birds, dinky feet on Forest's floor, water-a-trickling.
Healing from a pain so deep
It threatens to crush my voice.
I rebel, fight back, scream, kick, cry.
I will not allow this.
You cannot have my soul.
My past will not destroy me!
Your 'control' is merely an illusion.
I am no longer a child.
For I see the light.
It's above me,
Filtering through the leaves.
It streaks my face with gold.
I feel its warmth on my skin.
This is the color of confidence.
I give myself the permission.
I can heal.
No one else can have
Me.
I smile.
I laugh.
I cry.
I'm filled with joy.
I am at peace.
Up ahead, I see a bridge.
I will cross it.
I will burn it down.
*Sadism*
I love you.
Best friends.
Loyal companions.
Would have died
For you.
But you know
That don't you?
You created a
Loyal bitch.
All of you did.
And I am
Left with the
Confusion,
Pain,
Agony,
Self-hatred.
I've betrayed
YOU.
I've gone against
Everything I was
Taught.
Lay down your child
On the bed.
Naked, scared,
Excited!
Biting, pinching,
Pulling,
Killing,
Loving, laughing,
Raping.
Rape of the mind.
Is that real?
We love you so much.
No one understands
Us like you.
You're our doll.
Dolly Dimples she said.
But love was there.
Love and pain
Mixed creates
The most loyal of
Children and bitches.
Who am I?
What do I want?
I don't know.
Do you?
You made me daddy.
You liked my nakedness
Didn't you.
Throwing ice on it.
Grabbing and pulling
And pinching and
Striking and screaming
And laughing and
Blinding and sickening
And heaving and
Dying.
We love you.
We always have.
You were so
Good to us.
This poem was inspired and written collectively with my differing “aspects”.
*Porcupine No Longer*
Ashamed and frozen in fear, time stops.
Pretending to be asleep; staying very still...
Lying and waiting, pretending it's all just a dream.
NO! Get up! I have to do something! SCREAM!
*Silence*... I don't make a sound. No one can know. Ashamed!
Eyes now scrunched up tight and fists form into balls.
Go into my mind. Pretend I am a porcupine.
Can't touch me! Can't touch me! I am a porcupine!
Doesn't work...
Porcupine's quills have been plucked clean away! Exposed.
Body is a map whose lands have been plundered before.
Monster's fingers are legs, walking the map, exploring it all.
Monster is greedy: taking what is not his to take.
Too scary. So scary. Can't be happening.
Dumb, wretched girl.
Pretend. Pretend. Pretend. Smile. I'm alright.
Tomorrow I'll pretend I don't remember what happened at night.
*Didn’t Have a Chance*
This confusion will not cease,
You've broken me in many ways.
Will I ever get any peace?
Have you got nothing at all to say?
Did you think you were doing right by me?
Did I even matter to you at all?
I was just your scapegoat to sanity,
It didn't matter if it caused me to fall.
You took my heart for your own gain.
You altered it in a cruel and sick way.
Why can't it be you who feels this pain?
Why must it be I who has to pay?
Do you know how damaged I feel inside?
Can't you see my dirtiness now?
This is why I have to hide,
Continuing with you this unnatural vow.
You took advantage of my mind and age.
You played the victim well for me.
Don't you know you forced me into an unseen cage?
How was it that everything you did you could not see?
Thank you for caring enough to read my story. It is the story of countless children being raised just like I was. Please don’t forget them. I want other survivors to know that you are not alone. Time and self-work make days easier. Please know that healing to a level of thriving is absolutely possible.
To every child being abused, you are so strong and brave. You have the right to speak up; to tell your story; to be believed, heard and protected. You have the right to be safe and loved. You are not alone, and there are many of us Advocates dedicated to rescuing you and helping you heal.
