Eighteen years ago I ran away from a life and a world I could no longer stand, which I could never have fit into or belonged to. The details and circumstances of my story won’t be the same as too many other people in the LGBT communities, but what isn’t unique to me is the experience of growing up feeling confused, voiceless and hopeless.
When my mum was very young she met and joined a religious cult commonly known as ‘The Moonies’, though officially known as the Unification Church. I spent most of my first 18 years living with my mum and later step-dad under the control of this cult, its expectations and endless rules, a lot of which made no sense, and were both contradictory and demeaning. Intermittently I would be banished as the next church fad kicked in, mission and edict, and my grandparents and other family members would rescue me.
I should point out that no one in my family has anything to do with the movement anymore, except for a few friends and ex-members we’ve stayed connected with.
The teachings, rules and belief system of this particular cult are detailed and complex. If they approach you, they may seem nice; they can talk a good talk but I promise they are dangerous and damaging. The community is small here in Ireland, but they’ve been known to skulk outside the GPO.
I grew up under the influence of a Messianic megalomaniac leader named Sun Myung Moon (who died [in 2012], leaving his wife and sons [fighting each other for control]), who dictated our daily family life, what we should think, when we would sleep, how many times a day we must pray, who we should marry (they have arranged, mass weddings), how we should be educated, how we should have sex, how many children to have and what to name them. The list goes on and on – there was nothing left to free will or personal desire; not even your own taste buds were safe. Commune life controlled your food intake and having your own source of money was discouraged. Can you imagine as a teenager being banned from listening to secular music, or being forced to wear certain clothes on the basis of gender? It sounds like an MTV reality show, but it was my childhood. I was regularly chastised for wanting to wear trousers, Doc Martens and my hair short, to name just a few of my “deviations”.
I’m sure there are many who grew up in devout religious homes that can identify with how insidious church/institutional dogma can can be. Reverend Moon and his behavioural management style was often no different to that of the Catholic hierarchy or Imams of Islamic States, using fear of God, fear of punishment in the afterlife, fear of shame, and often using sex as a device to administer those fears and then offering redemption as a source of hope.
The Guinness Book of Records-famous arranged marriages and the off-spring of these unions were, and still are, the focal point of Moonie life, again not too different to a lot of the fundamental Judeo-Christian-Islamic rhetoric – marry your own, pro-create and educate within the confines of heteronormativity. Homosexuality (or being transgender) doesn’t visibly exist within the membership of this international religion’s congregation, and if it does it’s viewed as a sickness to be overcome or a sign of ‘satanic possession’, to be cast out.
For adults who join the movement there are a series of trials, workshops, and training programmes, and a separate set of rules to adopt than for the children growing up in the community. But all the roads and paths lead in one direction – to the arranged marriages and the procreation of more members from those marriages.
Stepping out of the designed plans, as my mum temporarily did when she had me, meant that I was about as welcome as an illegitimate child in 1930s Ireland.
As I grew up my grandparents were incredibly kind and offered me the opportunity to live, breathe and think outside of cult life every now and again. They provided stability, turned a blind eye to small-minded cultural norms in rural Ireland, and set a good example as open-minded humanitarians. But this occasional freedom was also a curse, as long as I had no real freedom of my own.
As soon as I turned 18 I ran as far away as I possibly could. It was 1997 when I made the official break, jumping on a train in the dead of night. In November of the same year I got word that the photograph of my intended spouse was ready for me to see, that my wedding band, wedding dress and plane tickets to Washington DC, where my mass ceremony was being held that year, were in London awaiting collection. I knew I couldn’t re-enter a life that felt like a living hell, so I wrote to them informing them that I would expose all and press charges if they didn’t leave me alone.
It took a while, and a few more traumatic experiences, but eventually I broke free. I could blame my mum for the wretched parts of my childhood and it’s true that she’s not entirely blameless, but I respect that her intentions and faith were pure, even if they were misguided. And my mum has had the courage to ask for forgiveness and to be open to who I need to be. Not only does she no longer stand in my way, but she publicly supports my activist life and welcomes my intimate relationships.
I appreciate that my personal experiences are an extreme example of the need for, and the emergence of, personal autonomy, and I hope very few people share with the few details I’ve written about. But I speak in solidarity to all who have found or are on the verge of finding the courage and the self-determination to step out of an abusive home, or a marriage that no longer makes sense, out of a life that doesn’t feel like yours, or out of a mindset that is holding you back. No matter how high the wall, thick the chain or strong the grip, you can be free to be who you need to be and want to be. And there’s no shame in asking for help along the way.
