Kat's experiences in an abusive church - chapter 1
One late August Friday night in 2002, after finishing my shift as a cashier at Wal-Mart, I walked to the back of the store to clock out and head home. Just steps from the door, my breath caught in my throat. Why? Why again? Can't they just leave me alone? There they were. Donna and Steve. The people from my ex-church who had made it their mission to come in every Friday and remind me that I was going to hell unless I came back to their church. Every week for the past several months, since the week I left the church. Oh, sometimes there were other people instead. At first, I didn't mind, because they seemed friendly, like they were just stopping by to say hello. But then, the talk of hell began.
"You know," they'd begin, "Jesus is the only way. Where are you going to church now? If you don't have another church you really need to come back. If you aren't in church, the devil will come after you."
Even when I did find another church, it wasn't enough. They hadn't heard of the one I was attending now, (well, I only told them I attended - the pain was so intense from my previous experiences in THEIR church, that at my one and only visit to the new church, I couldn't even stop crying during the entire service,) so naturally it must not be as good. They tried to question me about it... fortunately the job of cashier is fast-paced enough that I "had to return to work" and wait on my next customer. It never did any good to call for a supervisor, because by the time one got to my register, Donna and Steve, or whoever it was from the congregation who had stopped by, were walking away.
They hadn't been there in months, or if they had, I hadn't seen them. I'd written a letter to the church back in April and dropped it off myself. I tried to tell them exactly what they'd done to me, but I think I largely failed, instead making it sound like I was just angry and screwed up. I made a copy for Anita and Larry and one for the pastor and his wife. That had stopped them from bothering me at work somewhat, but there were still other people from the church who made it a point of stopping by. (It wasn't a simple coincidence, as the store I worked at was 45 minutes from their town, and there was another Wal-Mart that was closer to them.) Before I let them read the letter, I asked Anita a question. Why, after all the times I said I wanted to die... after all my depression... why had she never once called my parents and told them what I'd said? Her answer was simply that they lived with me... she figured they had to know. So that was her excuse, or at least what she told herself to avoid the guilt.
Back on that Friday night, it was too much, I was surrounded. No supervisors nearby, no phones to call for them. I could have just run into the back of the store, but I decided to appeal to their sense of sympathy. I told them how, in May, I'd tried to kill myself. Donna hugged me and then gave me some speech about Jesus. Her final comment... "Jesus would save you. Not me, I'd have never done a thing for you."
So much for a Christian attitude.
I clocked out and found a supervisor in the back to walk me to my car. It wasn't the last time I would see them, but the damage was done. The next week, I quit my job because I couldn't take the panic attacks anymore. I would be on my register and think I caught a glimpse of someone from the church, and I'd break down and have to get off my register. It was too much. In November, I was hospitalized, because I couldn't promise to the doctor that I wouldn't try to kill myself again. The damage was indeed done.