a mormon memoir part six: learning & growing

My role in the world felt more confusing than ever. I was embarrassed about my past. This wasn’t the life I would have chosen for myself! But here I was. And I wanted radical change.

As an active member of the online ex-Mormon community in 2018, I followed along closely to the excommunication of Sam Young. Growing up I had only heard of excommunications through the grapevine, muddied stories told through a game of telephone that, though juicy, were ultimately irrelevant to my life. Excommunication wasn’t something that church leaders spoke about openly. And despite the ever looming threat of it, excommunication seemed to happen rarely. Or at the very least was kept behind closed doors.

Sam Young was a former Mormon bishop who had received a lot of media attention for his advocacy work over the past two years. He was the face of justice for sexual abuse survivors in the Mormon Church. His work started when he learned that his daughter had been routinely asked sexually explicit questions during worthiness interviews by a bishop during her teenage years. 

I was so touched that this parent would love his daughter so much that he was willing to listen to her, even if it meant facing something ugly about the church he so wholly believed in. Not only did he listen, he confronted it. Publicly. He gathered thousands of stories from members who had similar experiences during worthiness interviews. I read a small portion of these stories on his website and was sickened at how commonplace it was for bishops to ask young children, teens, and adults sexually explicit questions. 

But sometimes it was more than just questions. Stories from rape survivors and child sexual assault survivors were harrowing. I read a few dozen before deciding I didn’t need to keep going down this sickly rabbit hole in order to understand that this issue was systemic. “Worthiness interviews are a grooming tactic,” Sam Young explained, and I couldn’t disagree. I could see how abuse could easily thrive in an environment like this. In a small room with a closed door, a man with “authority from God” and a child sit together as he inquires about the child’s sexual purity. And with the shame and secrecy that shroud sexuality in Mormonism, it wasn’t difficult to imagine how easy it would be for bishops to get away with abuse. 

I remembered my own experiences during worthiness interviews. It was uncomfortable to sit alone with a man decades older than me, one time it was my friend’s dad, as he asked me if I kept the law of chastity. I was never asked probing questions about sex or masturbation, but I later learned a term coined by the ex-Mormon community: bishop roulette, aptly named for the luck or misfortune of the character of your bishop. None of my bishops had given me the creeps, but that didn’t make me doubt the integrity of these stories. 

And this clearly wasn’t a case of a few bad apples. I learned about the relationship the church has with Kirton McConkie law firm, their main legal representative. I learned that according to the church handbook and training materials for bishops, all confessions of sexual abuse and rape are to be reported to the law firm for liability purposes instead of reporting to the police. Then I learned that in Utah, whose government is deeply influenced by the Mormon church, religious organizations are exempt from mandatory reporting. 

Then I learned that the Mormon church had successfully buried many abuse cases. Ever powerful and wealthy, the church had invested countless resources into maintaining a clean image. These many acts of saving face not only kept perpetrators from facing justice but in many cases also allowed these very perpetrators to hold leadership positions in the church, many of which involved close interactions with children. Evil.

It was sickening to learn this information. Finding out the church wasn’t true was like figuring out Santa Claus isn’t real. Yes, the magic died, but in its death bloomed a richer worldview. But this felt like discovering your community Santa, the dude with the white beard you’ve known your whole life, is a pedophile. And just as bad, finding out that some of your neighbors knew about it and just… kept letting kids sit in his lap. All in the name of preserving the magic of Christmas!

My personalized pain from the church grew into something much bigger. I watched online as Sam Young read a letter from Church Headquarters which stated he had been excommunicated in a hearing he’d failed to attend. 

So that was it, this was the church’s response to so much pain. Deny, ignore, excommunicate, press forward. They wouldn’t change their systems, and they most certainly wouldn’t take accountability for the heinous crimes that had gone on under their watch. Outraged, I opened a new tab on my phone and typed quitmormon.org. 

Quit Mormon is a non-profit that handles the legal paperwork required to remove your records from the Mormon church. At the time of my resignation I was not required to consult a notary, but the system would change shortly after. Lucky timing, I guess. A month later, I received notice that my resignation was complete. Withdrawing my membership would mean my contact information would no longer be stored nor distributed and missionaries and neighbors couldn’t contact me to try and reactivate me. 

It didn’t even occur to me to talk to my husband about removing my records. He was hurt. My resignation canceled our eternal sealing, meaning we would not be together in the next life. That didn’t mean anything to me, I knew the threat of breaking up eternal families was just a control tactic, but I realized I could have been more empathetic to my husband’s point of view. 

The intellectual and emotional freedom of my newfound beliefs came with a natural de-centering of our relationship. For me, at least. We just weren’t connecting in the way I really craved. Almost everything I wanted to talk about was too uncomfortable or threatening to him. Still, we loved each other and respected each other’s independence. He’d do his Mormon thing on his time and I’d do my own thing on my time. And when our time together remained surface level and fun, we thrived. 

But mostly, I wanted to be alone. I was obsessed with learning. My new job wasn’t anything I was thrilled about, but it allowed me lots of quiet time at my desk where I could listen to podcasts and audiobooks or scroll through ex-Mormon reddit. On weekends I’d plant myself at a coffee shop for hours and read or journal. My mind was starving and at last I wasn’t afraid to feed it whatever it wanted. To no longer suppress my curiosity out of fear I’d leave the bounds of Mormon-safe ideas was perhaps the biggest gift of my faith journey. I was interested in evolution, cult psychology, sexuality, social justice, climate change, feminism, animal rights, political theory, healing, spirituality, religious trauma, and psychedelics. 

My life felt like magic and in spite of my battered reputation, I thrived. A newfound energy inside of me made me feel strong and capable.  I got a gym membership and pushed myself. I had never been able to stick to a routine before but this time was different. I was slowly becoming more embodied and aware of my human-ness. Taking care of myself just felt good, so I wanted to keep doing it. The intense exercise helped me move stress out of my body and I slept soundly at night. 

I was an avid listener of the Mormon Stories podcast. Listening to long form interviews from people whose stories were like mine made me feel infinitely less alone. In my own little pocket of Mormonism (my family, my friends, my small hometown) I felt like an outlier. I was the black sheep, the lone fault finder, the crazy one. But in the larger world of Mormonism as a whole, I was one of thousands stepping away from religious abuse and calling a spade a spade. 

Mormon Stories episodes are known for being lengthy but that’s what I loved about it. Dr. John Dehlin asks his guests to start from the beginning of their life and share the little details of their Mormon story. In the end, each person has between 2 and 10 hours in the hot seat. The psychological process of indoctrination, disenchantment, and deconstruction fascinated me. Listening to those who had once been just as faithful as I describe their indoctrination and subsequent pain was the real sermon I craved. 

Yes, that’s what it felt like for me too! 

I became a Mormon anthropologist putting in enough hours to get a degree. Every lie I uncovered and new perspective I considered unfucked my brain neural pathway by neural pathway. 

One of the Mormon Stories interviews that rocked my world the most was that of Tom Phillips, a former Stake President (the position above bishop) in London. Tom is one of the few “higher ups” who has left the church and spoken publicly about the inner workings of leadership. I was shocked to learn about a secret ceremony he and other church officials participated in called the Second Anointing, where “one’s calling and election is made sure.”

Essentially, Tom and his wife were invited to attend the temple for a special meeting. During the meeting he was informed that he would be receiving an additional saving ordinance that would prepare him to meet God. Hearing Tom describe the ritual was a little creepy: an apostle washed his feet before being led to a private room where his wife was asked to wash his feet and lay her hands on his head and give him a blessing. But what was truly scary was learning about the implications of the ritual. The idea is that once this ritual is completed, you have a guaranteed spot in the highest degree of the Celestial Kingdom. And with that you are no longer held liable for sins. You have a free pass to do whatever the hell you want. There are only two sins off-limit: murder and apostasy. Other than that, you’re free. You can lie, drink, steal, fuck, have a cup of tea, quite literally whatever you want. 

Learning about the Second Anointing helped me understand the foundational operating principles of the Mormon Machine. Church leaders, those with high status at least, could sin. And lie. And deceive. These are very powerful men who believe their thoughts, desires, and feelings come from God as a gift to the rest of the world. Members are taught to seek counsel and direction from these people who in truth have no moral qualms with their own hypocrisy. These men believe they stand superior and that through their own merits have earned the right to live sinfully. All while preaching purity from the pulpit. 

I sat at my desk with my headphones in and marveled at the intricacies of the hierarchical power structures that had fucked me over. The amount of power the church wielded was almost impressive. The more time I spent listening to Mormon Stories the less I cared about technicalities of the history of the church. I was more drawn to stories about current impact. Nothing made this emotional shift more clear for me than listening to the painful stories of queer members of the church. Tyler Glenn of Neon Trees’ had me in tears as I imagined what it would be like to live under the intense shame of being told your sexuality is evil, a dark temptation from Satan. 

I reflected on how I’d been conditioned to understand gender and sexuality. Rigid gender roles and hetero relationships were all I was exposed to as a kid, so I was shocked in late elementary school when a friend told me what the word “gay” meant. Based on the way we used it, I thought it was just another mean word, like stupid or dumb. I had never heard of boys liking other boys or two moms or girls kissing other girls. It seemed so foreign.

A few years later my bishop read a statement from the church urging members to become politically involved in the upcoming November 2008 election in California in support of Proposition 8 which would ban same sex-marriages. Even members living outside of California were asked to help canvas or declare their support publicly. I knew being gay must be a horrible, wicked thing if the church spoke of the public threat of it like this. It was during this time that the weight of the latter-days hung heavy in Mormon spaces.

The adversary is working so hard these days. 

Satan is using Christ-like words like ‘love’ in order to confuse people.

California is the new Sodom and Gomorrah.

They are trying to tear down The Family.

We can prepare for the Second Coming by standing for what’s right.

I’d been lead to believe gayness was a figment of worldly imagination, a specter and a spectacle of the end of times. Same Sex Attraction, they called it. A temptation and a trial yes, but an identity it was surely not. We talked about those who struggled with SSA with pity. There were boys you could guess might have it, the ones who just didn’t have that masculine appeal girls liked. I felt bad for them. They were so nice and fun to hang out with, but we all knew it would be hard for them to find a wife when they got older. And I’d heard stories of girls who confused their intense emotions and affectionate feelings intended for their future husbands for an attraction to their girl friends. It had seemed so unfortunate. 

Now I shuddered as I reflected on how I’d been taught to view gender and sexuality. I could see how the very concept of love had been twisted into something dark. In Mormonism, love is obedience. Love is sameness. Love is the fulfillment of a role you’ve been told to play. It all felt so gross. Being a gay member of the church sounds excruciatingly painful. 

My anger and grief intensified when I learned that Utah has one of the highest youth suicide rates in the country, and that queer kids are three times more likely to attempt suicide. I remembered my own experience being depressed in Mormonism. Death seemed like a peaceful release from mortality, a dark idea upheld by the Mormon paradigm. There’s an object lesson found in the church’s youth curriculum in which a long string is adorned with a single bead. The bead, placed in the middle, represents our brief mortal existence on earth within the grand scheme of eternity, the string. Earth life is but a moment! A blink in the eyes of eternity! Pair that belief with the constant messaging to “those who struggle with SSA” that their “temptations” will be lifted in the next life and you get a deadly cocktail. 

I wanted to riot at church headquarters! Gay people, a lot of them kids, were KILLING themselves because of the shameful messaging they were receiving from their “beloved church community.” Deplorable, hideous, poisonous. It was crazy making to live in Salt Lake City, every day faced with the gargantuan temple and church headquarters, surrounded by Mormons who smiled brightly and spoke with a sweet, upbeat cadence that is often described as “so, so nice.” It didn’t feel nice to me anymore. It felt scary. 

My role in the world felt more confusing than ever. I was embarrassed about my past. This wasn’t the life I would have chosen for myself! I hated that my core developmental years were spent in a religion that instilled values I vehemently disagreed with. 

But here I was. And I wanted radical change. I’d heard about ex-Mormons using psychedelics and became very curious about what a trip would do for me. My mind felt like a deep, unexplored forest and although I was having fun exploring new territories at the surface, I felt like psychedelics could push me deeper into my subconscious and shine a light on the deep-rooted darkness. 

There was so much about me that didn’t feel natural and I felt confused and alone so much of the time. It seemed like everyone else had a map and I didn’t. I looked up to people who seemed sure of what they believed in and what they wanted out of life. I saw old parts of myself in them and hoped I was also seeing parts of a future self. I tried to understand my feelings but it was like they were speaking to me in a foreign language.  It didn’t help that I was so hard on myself, but it was the only way I knew how to be. 

I joined the ExmoPsych reddit community and read about people’s experiences using mushrooms or LSD to deconstruct and heal after Mormonism. Occasionally members would organize local meetups for people to discuss their experiences in person and a few months later I attended one. On a sunny Sunday morning a group of us gathered in a coffee shop. The entire group was male except for me and another girl who seemed to be my age. We approached each other after the discussion and related to each other about the overwhelming male-ness of the room, how it kind of felt like being back in church. 

It was nice to talk with someone who understood the discomfort of being an ex-Mormon woman in a room full of ex-Mormon men eager to teach us about different states of consciousness. She could relate to me and that’s what I was hoping to get out of the experience. I shared why I was curious about psychedelics and she told me about her own experiences using them. 

We became friends and hung out a few times. A few months later, basking in the late spring sun at Liberty Park, she offered me a leftover quarter of a tab of LSD from a batch she had recently enjoyed with some friends. I placed the little square of paper in a small jewelry bag in my purse and held onto it, waiting for the right moment to present itself.

My first year as an ex-Mormon was full of growth. Every book I read, podcast I listened to, and documentary I watched expanded my mind. I felt like I had an intellectual disadvantage because my core educational years had been tainted by sexism and piety. Now knowledge empowered me. Learning how systems of power operated helped me feel like I was gaining some of that power back. I had been manipulated and I needed to understand how and why. 

And I liked being “of the world.” I learned to appreciate black coffee and IPAs and red wine. My palette expanded like my perspectives and developing an appreciation for bitterness felt like a mental victory just as much as a physical one. I had fun playing with how I presented myself to the world too. I dyed my hair pink, pierced my nose, and felt more comfortable in clothing styles I’d been taught to vilify. I was in love with experimentation and change. But there was still one constant in my life: my marriage.

Our relationship was better than ever. For the first time in our marriage we weren’t stressed about money. We both had full time jobs and it was exciting to feel like adults who could enjoy nights out and weekend trips. Life with him was fun. He slowly became more comfortable with my new lifestyle and soon enough he was accompanying me to bars and shopping on Sundays. Everyone was always so curious about how we were making it work because it really seemed like our relationship was thriving. And it was, kind of. As long as we didn’t broach certain topics. 

But inside I was living a whole other life he didn’t care to know about. When I could manage to compartmentalize myself into “Wife Katrina” and “Growing Katrina” things were smooth sailing and blissful. But when our obvious clash of values reared its damning head our frustrations with each other became painfully apparent. It felt like someone else had cast a love spell on my husband. In an emo moment I wrote a poem about what it was like to be in a relationship like this:

and like gutted pumpkins

we rotted through cold november days

eerie smiles,

no flicker inside

pretending everything’s just fine

But then again, so much of the time I felt happy with him and grateful for his love and support. I didn’t know what to trust, it felt too messy and raw. I did, however, trust a nudging from inside. Something I once would have called The Holy Ghost. I felt a pull to get out of the United States and immerse myself in a completely different culture. Foreign travel had been a huge catalyst for my personal development and I wanted that type of experience again. Eager to make it happen while also keeping the comfort and familiarity of my marriage, I found a company that arranges international internships for college students and recent graduates. I could live in a new country for three months while working and experiencing a new culture. Then I’d come back to Utah with a fresh perspective. 

I chose Morocco. I’d be able to practice French while also learning a new language, plus I’d be immersed in a culture very different from my own. How exciting! For six months I saved parts of my paycheck to pay off the program fees and travel expenses. I studied Arabic. My upcoming trip kept me hopeful about my marriage. Three months would be a long time to be apart, but it seemed like giving ourselves some independence would help us better understand who we are as individuals. I knew we needed that.

Career-wise, I was so lost. It was the first time in my life that I honestly asked myself “what do you want to do when you grow up?” and I had no fucking clue. Even with my degree, I didn’t feel prepared. So, like a lot of women in their 20s who feel lost and uncertain about their future, I decided to apply for grad school. This could be the thing that keeps me going when I get back from Morocco, I told myself. 

I needed letters of recommendation. I immediately thought of a former boss who had been a great support to me when I was a freshman in college. I looked up to her. She was a wise woman who no longer believed in the church but she had treated me with such genuine understanding and love. She was somebody whose life advice I trusted and appreciated. We hadn’t kept in great contact since I’d moved away from Provo but I missed her. And now with a few more years of experience and maturity, I was starting to understand that she had been the only adult in my life who had offered me legitimate, healthy relationship and life advice outside of the Mormon paradigm. 

So, I asked her out to lunch. Catching up with her was the emotional catharsis I didn’t know I needed. She listened to me with empathy and curiosity as I told her about my journey out of the church. She made me feel brave. Soon, she asked about my marriage. I skirted around my feelings, keeping things positive. “I’m so lucky, he still loves me and he’s okay with my new lifestyle. We don’t really talk about a lot of things, but it’s okay for now because we have such a good friendship and connection and we are figuring it out.” 

She could read me like a book. All she said was, “it’s okay if you want to get divorced,” and I started to cry. That secret desire of mine felt so selfish. I’d kept those thoughts muted for so long, always expressing gratitude for a spouse that still loved me even though I was going against practically everything we promised to each other. It seemed ungrateful and mean spirited to want to leave the relationship.

But I knew in my bones what I really wanted. I dreamt of starting anew, in a place far away from Utah and away from people that reminded me of the person I was once destined to become. I wanted to date lots of different people. To be single. To make decisions without considering anyone else. To be a normal person in their early twenties. But I couldn’t imagine putting myself first like that, especially when it would hurt someone who was kind to me. Her simple statement helped me feel a little less bad about these desires I’d kept hidden in the shadows. Her words planted a seed.

Summer 2019 was picture-perfect. I made a new group of friends on Bumble BFF and loved every minute of being a part of a girl squad. We’d smoke weed at house parties, pregame at each other’s apartments for nights out, and we even went on a road trip to Las Vegas together. My social life meant a lot to me. My job was uninspiring and its tedium became less manageable every day but I coped with audiobooks and reverie. Soon I’d be in Rabat and everything would be different. 

One sunny afternoon after my husband had gone to church, I felt the moment was right to take a plunge deep into my subconscious. I pulled the quarter tab of acid from my purse and placed it on my tongue and within a couple hours I had landed in a dream world. 

It was like a literal dream in the way you can be in a familiar place but there’s something that’s just off, perhaps in the layout or the size. In this case I was in my apartment but it was no longer one of many, a boring product of mass residential design. Now it was a tree house, designed just for me, cozy and homey and mine. I admired the art I’d hung on my walls and the books I’d filled my bookshelf with. So exquisitely me! I loved the dirty dishes in the sink and the stack of mail I’d been avoiding opening. I admired the way the sunlight flooded into the room, the way only noon’s light could. It was a beautiful sight I’d had to miss all those days at the office. I laughed thinking of my job. What a silly way to have to spend my precious time!

Still, it hit me that I was living my dream. A year had passed since I’d read the CES Letter and chosen the road less traveled. The weight of everything I had learned and grown into felt visceral. I did this! I created my dream life! Was I magic? Admiring the way the sunlight hit my skin, I imagined myself a vampire in the Twilight universe. Twilight, what a hoot! I crept over to my balcony giggling at my gait. It was so cute the way my limbs were trying their very best to support me on this journey to the outdoor world. 

From high above, practically in the heavens it seemed, I watched some kids in the parking lot practice their skateboarding tricks. They were delightful, hilarious even. It was as if  not a moment had passed from my own childhood and I surrendered to the memory, the feeling, of being outside on bikes with my friends practicing tricks at a dirt lot. Damn. Now isn’t that what it’s all about: being with friends outside, moving your body, and only telling time by the changing shades of gold? I clapped and cheered with the kids when they landed a cool trick. They waved at me and laughed and it was like we were best friends.

Goddamnit there was so much motherfucking love in my heart. I wiped away tears as I recognized there’s an infinite well of that love I could give to myself and that I was worthy of every drop of it. I saw so clearly that I was deserving of deep, unconditional love and that my secret longing for divorce was rooted in this buried knowing of deservedness. I had so much love for my husband, I really did, and I felt his love for me. But it wasn’t the kind of love I craved. It was a familiar pattern, a love rooted in the fulfillment of a role and sustained by a hearty stash of happy, unencumbered memories. But as nice as complementary roles and fond memories are, they aren't love.

I closed my eyes and sat with the feelings of divorce. There was fear. There was guilt. Would it be scary? Of course it would. But that would pass, just as I had learned fear tends to do. Would it hurt him? Yeah. And it would hurt me too. I mean, we’d shared four pivotal years together! With a bond like that, pain was sure to accompany a break. But I recognized it would be crueler to keep on pretending like this union was sustainable. He deserves the life of his dreams and so do I. And endings don’t have to be about someone being bad or something being wrong. Sometimes things just run their course and that’s that. 

The come down was gentle and I relaxed into the peaceful afterglow of a beautiful Sunday. In the coming days I’d talk to my husband about divorcing and he’d agree. I would cry and mourn and pace anxiously but I’d sign the papers with faith. I would turn 23, quit my job, move my things into storage, and hop on a plane to Africa. All of that would come but today was holy, today was a day of rest. The most sacred of all my Sabbath days.