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I knew we'd sunk to a new low when my two kids and I spent the day in a Wal-Mart because it was warmer than the RV we shared with my unemployed boyfriend, and the food sample trays were fuller than our shelves. But I was no stranger to poverty and hunger.
The physical abuse I suffered at my boyfriend's hands wasn't new, either. The harsh treatment I grew up with—including inappropriate sexual contact by adult men—formed a perverted sort of comfort zone. Warning signs that would alert a healthy person to steer clear of a relationship served more like street signs keeping me on the same road to ruin.
Growing up, I found no solace in the church my family attended, which mixed Scripture with fear, condemnation, control, and abuse. The group my family was in didn't teach about a God of unconditional love and forgiveness. Yet at age 16, I called out to God from the depths of my battered being. Afterwards, I felt different—as though I'd just met someone whose heart I knew I could trust. Not surprisingly, when I told my mother about this, she and the church authorities scolded me.
A Way OutI had one safe spot from the poverty and abuse of my youth—my art. The canvas was where I poured out emotions so deep I didn't have words for them.
Flowers fascinated me as their petals unfolded with hope and promise; when I painted them, the darkness of my life disappeared. As it did, I could dare to dream that no matter what the adults in my life said, perhaps God could love and empower me.
In high school I was awarded an art scholarship to Oral Roberts University—a major coup for an impoverished girl like me. While there, I finally was away from the grip of control and abuse.
Unfortunately, a family crisis brought me home from college, where I was making straight As. But strengthened by my time away, I finally left the cult. I met a youth pastor who swept me off my feet. Because he was from a legitimate denomination, he represented a new path to me—a healthy relationship within a healthy church.
On our first date, the youth pastor proposed. We were married two weeks later. I soon learned that kind of impulsive, irrational behavior was his hallmark. It might have been a red flag had I known the warning signs of abusive relationships. I never returned to ORU, a choice I regret to this day.
Back to AbuseIt wasn't long before my husband—and his lightning-quick rage—controlled every aspect of my life. Despite the fact he also was an auto mechanic, I never had a working vehicle, which kept me at home under his control. He limited my social contacts, monitored what I read, and controlled all our meager finances. He had affairs with other women and admitted to lusting after men. Despite all this, we had two children right away.
Blinded by my years of childhood abuse, I clung to my distorted vision of the submissive wife. I believed my husband's lies that I was the one with the problem. When I confided in church leadership, many were duped by the mask of religiosity my husband wore. They encouraged me to pray more.
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