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When Religion Hurts You: Healing from Religious Trauma and the Impact of High-Control Religion

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Laura E. Anderson

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“It’s a dream about how the world was made. It was made by a demented angel. Crazy with loneliness, he looked into a mirror and the mirror cracked, and thus the world was made. We can wander about picking up the pieces if we like, but all we ever see is our own face squinting back. Through a crack. Darkly. It’s a cold place, you see. A place of question and cold wind. And with such poor lighting that we can only see at all because the mirror’s back is black. It was a botched job, Cambridge. The Gnostics knew it. They knew there’s Gnothing for us here. So your father and mine would have been much wiser not to bring us here at all. They should have left us where we belong - out across that milky way which begins beyond the rim of the universe and ends between our thighs. But crazy angels that they were, they made us crazy angels too.”

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“AYA HAD TOLD OF the beginning of the world. She had been as fire in the void, twisting, churning, wanting to form. Over time she had taken shape, and it had hurt. Nemours knew how much, but Mother described it also as a joy. To become. From particles burning and melding she had grown into a great dragon, rough-hewn by the collisions of time. Sharp eyes watching the darkness, fire now her breath. The fire, raging alone, had made clouds, and the clouds made rain. The rain had fallen, sweet, and made a sea. The rain had turned salty with her tears and made more seas. And from that fire and rain and the very dust of stars Father had formed. Or so she liked to say. She described Virso coming together, shaped already like a man. The most beautiful of creatures, with the coldness of the moon on his skin, asleep still in the ether. So enamored was she that she had retreated into her own body and remade herself in his likeness. The dragon had hardened and cracked, and she had emerged from it with long limbs, awkward for a while, and reached for him. The body, empty, had fallen from her and into the sea. Aya had taken Virso by the hand and breathed fire and life into him. Their passion had begun. Beneath them, the gigantic dragon body in the water had petrified and become the world. Or so she liked to tell. It had always been difficult to catch Mother out of a poetic mood. She was magic, and she liked illusion.”

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“We monads cannot get over the fact that we can’t fully know one another. Well survival each other until the cows come home and pretend it’s for marketing or science or spy craft. But really all this data is just a burnt offering to a god who withdrew long ago, leaving us the mute earth and also the vestiges of good and evil. And I guess we’re free to care about, or even date, these vestiges, if we so choose.”

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“When I noticed other people, I wondered what it was like to be alive. They did not know, could not know, how I felt inside. My shell still passed for normal. I felt like I should scream for help, someone should help, but I knew that the time for screaming had passed. Best to just keep on walking, walking dead, one of the few things I could still do. So I kept walking.”

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