Yes I'm an Ex-Mormon, But I had a Good Experience Being One

It’s taken me a few years, but I think I’m finally ready to write this story. You see, there is a common misconception about “apostates”, and it is a very negative one. I carried that burden for a long time, and still do. I once belonged to a very intimate community of people, a very small universe of rigid ideology and no room for questions. And this might surprise you, but I was happy there. I'm going to address the positive aspects of my Mormon life, because I've already discussed in great detail the negative (not limited to the lying, patriarchy, coercion, or terrible ethics).

I was born into an active family. Active means current membership and belief in the Mormon Church. All of my immediate family were members, meaning active participants, baptized and believing.  My mom’s parents and brother as well, while my dad’s side were belonging to other Christian denominations.

I was proud to be a part of a select and elect group of people. I was taught from a young age that we were peculiar, different from the world. That I was a special spirit, saved for the last days because of my preexistence strength and obedience to Heavenly Father. Primary lessons, Sunday school lessons, mutual activities and more reiterate this idea that I was something special.

As a Sunbeam, I would get up with my fellow primary mates and sing my heart out behind the pulpit. My parents would tell me how beautiful my singing was, while I’m sure my primary teacher cringed at how loud and overpowering I actually was. I was excited for every talk I was asked to give, and I took every scripture memorization seriously. I became fiercely competitive when my mom offered a Happy Meal reward for memorizing the list of modern day prophets, and gloated while my brother cried when I got mine and he didn’t get his. I still have the McDonald’s 101 Dalmatian toy I earned right around Christmas time in 1995.

In high school, I felt confident in myself. I knew who I was, and I seldom questioned my faith. I would of course at time be discouraged by my sex, as a woman in god’s kingdom it always felt like my options were limited. And as I delved whole heartedly into seminary, I found things in the scriptures that made me question the validity of the gospel. But I chalked it up to the frailty of men, and remembered that god was perfect.

But I had amazing leaders. I had fantastic supports, and friends, and second moms and dads. Brothers and sisters who cared about me, and who inspired me to do great things. You see, I grew up in Alaska, and the Mormon community there is nothing like I’ve seen in other places. It’s different. It’s special. When my dad lost his job, our ward was there for us. When my mom was sick, her visiting teachers helped take care of our family. When she had to go back to work, there was a slew of people to help take care of me and my little brother. We were a family, all of us. And it felt good to be a part of that family.

When I was a teen, I had tremendous support from my leaders. Beautiful men and women who were trying their best and doing what they thought they should, and who gave of their time for me. Some of them even asked me to babysit their children, and I enjoyed that very much. Seeing those little babies all grown up now tugs at my heart strings. I participated in plays, and roadshows. I sang in sacrament meeting and during girl’s camp fundraising dinners. And my dad went to girl’s camp every year with me as one of the priesthood leaders. I had close friends, I had people who wanted to see me succeed. I had leaders and teachers and bishops who told me I was a special young woman, talented and smart. They told me I was a leader, and trusted me with responsibility.

When I went to college, I went to BYU-Idaho. And I found a community of my peers, LDS youth with my ideals, my goals, and my religion. We had prayers at the start of class, we had a very strict dress code to create a more professional learning environment, and we had lessons that fit a spiritual curriculum, even in anatomy and chemistry. I felt comfortable and immediately at home, even though I was on ny own for the first time. I marveled at how no matter where I would go, my family would always be there, my Mormon Family, and I would never want for inclusion or support.

I believed it. Yes, there were things I was confused about, but I really believed it. I knew god would reveal everything to me after the resurrection, and that I just needed to have faith in the meantime. I was excited to finally be able to meet my Grammy, my dad’s mom, because she had died before I was born, and I looked forward to finding my eternal companion one day. I was happy, I was comfortable, I was confident. I loved being a Mormon.

Eventually, I married my husband in the temple and we had two children. Various things I had put on a shelf began to surface as he became disillusioned with the church. The blessings of healing I had received, declaring I would be healed. My patriarchal blessing that said I would serve a full time mission. The translation of the Book of Mormon. The role of women in the eternities. Morality and agency and omniscience. Divine perfection and tears. Eventually, the shelf broke. All of those things I had ignored for so long demanded attention, and I could no longer use the excuse, “god will tell me everything after I die”. I realized that phrase was a band-aid to cover up the fact that there really were no answers and saying I could wait till after death had no real accountability.

It took me a long time before I was comfortable enough to start seeking answers. At first, I figured I just wasn’t schooled enough in the doctrine, and with my strong confirmation bias searched information to bolster up my theology. But the deeper I dug the more confused I became. The clearer the discrepancies appeared. Something was really wrong. I reached a stall, where I couldn't go forward or back. I was hurt. I felt betrayed; I tried to cling to whatever shred of faith I could find in myself, but it just kept slipping away. I laid in my bed at night, weeping to a god that didn’t exist to keep me, to show me in some way that the gospel of my youth was real and that he loved me enough to keep me. But there was nothing. No answer. Just a bunch of self-regulating feelings I now recognized as internally initiated, and not external. My spiritual experiences were self-created, guided by the prompting of my elders, who taught me how to feel something and how to interpret it. None of it was real.

The day I realized the church was false was a very dark day. It wasn’t happy. I wasn't dancing around in a little black dress with a glass of wine in hand thinking, “finally, I can SIN!”. No, I was in my room, quietly crying, and asking over and over, “why?”. My sadness eventually turned to anger. And self-defense. As I began to talk about what I had discovered, I was met with a severe backlash. My friends didn’t understand; my family was confused. Everyone assumed the worst. Family members began accusing me of horrific things, friends deserted me and called me horrible names. I felt like I was on an island, and no one even wanted to listen. I resorted to anger because no one believed me when I said I had believed. They all accused me of not being a real member. They said I just wanted to sin, or that I didn’t have enough faith. They asked me who had offended me. Or why I was mad at god. They wondered what horrible thing had happened to drive me away from the church. But none of them asked me what I thought, or why I felt the way I did. They didn’t want to hear it. And everything I said about the church was a direct attack on them. People I hadn’t talked to in years began engaging with me on my social media, accusing me of mocking their god and things they held dear. They continued to send me Christmas cards with god and jesus. They would post things on my wall about doctrine and returning to the church. But if I said anything contrary to their sincerely held belief, I was being offensive. Not once did any of them consider the offense or the hurt they caused me. Because they are right, and I’ve chosen to live a life without god.

It’s not that. I haven’t chosen to live a life without god. I’ve just come to realize that life doesn’t have god. God doesn’t exist. I didn’t choose this. In fact, I worked very hard to not be here like this. I wanted god to exist. I worked tirelessly to prove he exists. But my efforts ended up proving the opposite, and it took me a very long time before I came to terms with it. And I was very vulnerable during that time, having lost my foundation, and being mocked and accused by the people I thought were my friends. I didn’t have anyone to talk to. No one wanted to listen. Even the people I thought for sure would let me talk about what I had discovered, turned me away, said they didn’t want to hear it, said I had no business talking about it, asked me why it mattered to me, told me to leave it alone. Called me a bitter, angry, sinful woman. I was deceived by the world. It was abusive, and I was isolated.

So when I say I miss being a member, I mean it. I miss the community, I miss the family, I miss the security I felt. I miss the fairytale with the happy ending. Even though I see it now as a coercive and abusive theology, it was all I knew, and it was what I loved. I didn’t have a bad experience. I had a good one. And the people? They are good people. My ward family was wonderful, which is why it hurt so much to leave them, and why it hurts so much that none of them care to see my perspective or understand why I left. My own family doesn’t even want to know. They avoid the subject, or talking to me at all. Though I desperately wish I had one family member who understood. Just one who would listen and say, hey, you’re on to something. At the same time, I have to say that my parents have been so wonderful and supportive. They may not like that I left, but they have had nothing but love and respect for me. It killed me to tell them too, and I was incredibly hurt that they already knew because the church informed them against my wishes. I wanted to tell them when I was ready, because of how much I love and respect them. They have only ever wanted what’s best for me, and tried to do what they thought was best. They, like so many other Mormons, are good people who just want to do the right thing.

I’m not angry anymore. My anger has turned to sadness again. I think I will always carry that with because for so long, being Mormon was such an integral part of my identity. It was the lens through which I viewed everything. But my natural curiosity, my internal strength and stubbornness, and my refusal to accept the patriarchy wouldn’t let me keep it. And once I put that lens down, everything became clear and the questions dissipated. I’m at peace with my life and my existence. I’m a passionate woman, so I’ll probably always voice my opinion, which will be met with offense by many of those who used to be my friends. And I’ve also come to accept that. Though I hope for the day when I have a family member who comes to me, because they have too many unanswered questions and want someone to talk to. And I’ll be there for them, the way no one was there for me. My husband and I went through our crisis of faith alone, and it was scary. If someone would have just said, I will listen to you, it would have made a world of difference, but we were only met with passionate defenses and accusations of wickedness. Which made it all the more difficult.

Do not be so quick to judge. Don’t assume a lack of faith. I have loved and lost. And I am genuinely sad for it. I loved being a member of the church. It is a melancholy that will never be resolved, but in that melancholy, I have found a deeper meaning to my life, an authentic and real one. And that is what makes me happy.

For more about my thoughts and leaving the church, visit sarasimplysays.blogspot.com.