Religion Stripped Me of My Power to Consent
My conversion to a radical religious movement — and finding the courage to finally leave
Six months into my marriage, my husband forced himself on me.
At 19 years old, I’d just had a miscarriage and couldn’t mentally or emotionally fathom the idea of getting pregnant again. But a month or so after my doctor scraped my uterus to remove the baby whose heart had stopped beating, my husband’s patience ran out.
He came home drunk after the bar had closed and refused to take no for an answer — even though I said it, very loudly and clearly, several times. I was already in bed trying to sleep at that point, and after I verbally refused, he physically forced me into position and pried my legs apart, exercising what he saw as his husbandly authority over my body. I cried until he was finished.
We were barely half a year into our marriage, and I desperately wanted out. But sometime after that horrific night, I found myself pregnant again. I was in college — with no job and no money — and running away without the means to afford healthcare (let alone the means to support a child after I gave birth) didn’t seem like an option.
There was also the threat of my eternal damnation. I was deeply entrenched in a religion that told me if I got divorced, I’d be living in sin and would most certainly burn in hell.
For years, I believed that. And for years, I lived with the abuse.
Losing myself
Months before we got married, when I was foolishly in love with my husband-to-be, we sat down together for a pre-marital counseling session.
The priest we were working with started off discussing the things you typically think about when preparing for marriage. We covered living together for the first time, adjusting to new routines, giving each other grace, and so on.
Eventually, our counselor/priest brought up sex. I knew this would be a topic to cover, but I had no idea we’d go into all the nitty-gritty of what we could and could not do as husband and wife under penalty of mortal sin.
At one point, the priest I looked up to as an intelligent, scholarly, and holy teacher specifically told us to “never engage in anal penetration.”
It seemed an oddly specific thing to say. I got the feeling it was one of the more troublesome and popular trends among couples he worked with, so he had to try to nip it in the bud for his newly married parishioners.
The vibe in the room definitely got awkward.
I was a virgin at that point, encouraged to protect my purity and save myself for marriage. Anal play was literally the last thing on my mind, so following that rule wasn’t a problem for me. But listening to my priest imply that I’d spend an eternity writhing in fire for engaging in certain intimate sexual acts with my husband felt…off to me.
I’d just converted to a strict, radical form of Catholicism known as traditional Catholicism. Part of my reasoning was so that I could marry my boyfriend, but another part of me honestly yearned to be part of a faith community. Either way, this sexual discussion with the clergy was a lot to take in.
Even though there were things I didn’t quite understand or agree with when I was in the process of converting, there were rules I felt pressured to follow in order to avoid being tortured forever in the afterlife.
That’s the threat they used, always.
Some of these rules made me feel stripped of all personal choice when it came to the matter of my sexual and reproductive health. I was made to feel that women who exercised personal choice were selfish, ungodly creatures. I was told having sex for pleasure was also ungodly — and I found this to be especially true for women, who do not have to achieve orgasm in order to procreate.
You know what else I eventually learned was selfish and ungodly? Saying no to my husband whenever he wanted sex.
The priest never actually said these words to me, but I was encouraged by everyone around me to read the literature, follow the teachings, and obey my holy authority figures.
Between the husband and the wife, the husband is the one with the godly authority.
Once I was married, I soon realized that my sexual consent was technically no longer mine to give — or refuse. This wasn’t an easy pill to swallow, and even though it didn’t feel right, I went along with it out of fear.
Extreme traditionalism and conspiracy
I grew up Methodist, and some of my extended family members were Catholic, so my conversion to my husband’s religion didn’t seem like that far of a jump. At first.
For him, conversion was a requirement of marriage. His family would disown him if he married outside of their religion. I later learned that this was just for show on his part, and he didn’t actually want to follow all the teachings — which created a lot of conflict for us down the road.
But this wasn’t your modern, everyday Catholicism. This was an extreme traditionalist group who branched off in the 1960s because they felt that certain changes resulting from the Second Vatican Council were too lenient and appeasing to the secular world (e.g., reciting the mass in English rather than Latin so that it’s more easily understandable, or accepting that there are other ways to Heaven outside of Catholicism).
There are different levels of extremism, but the level I found myself in seemed to be the worst of the worst. It wasn’t just that they saw the liturgical changes as disrespectful; they saw the idea of inclusion and acceptance of other religions as a holy war that was breaking the Church apart.
This Vatican Council was the work of the devil, and the pope who incited it was a fraud. And that’s why priests started molesting children — a symptom of the evils of the split.
My husband was actually taught this as a child. Apparently, priests never abused children at any time before 1962, because that was before the great divide in the Church.
This is just one of the many conspiracies I was fed.
Many traditionalist communities are breeding grounds for white supremacy, and the host of evils that often accompany it: misogyny, anti-Semitism, homophobia, and abusive or manipulative uses of religion. One need only glance at popular far-right Catholics on Twitter to see the toxicity and prejudice that, in these circles, is not only tolerated but applauded.
A woman’s catch-22
As I became immersed in my husband’s fundamental religion, I seemed to lose myself. I look back on those five years and can now recognize some of the cult strategies used to brainwash the flock.
In a way, I do believe I was brainwashed. Or I let myself be? Or at least, I was taught a lot of rules and beliefs that I followed blindly due to my young age and inexperience — until I eventually learned that they didn’t make any sense.
During my conversion courses, the priest I worked with appealed to my passion for literature and academics — which was something that initially drew me to this religion. He would compliment my intelligence, and it made me feel special.
It didn’t feel like a cult to me then, but an appreciation for the beauty and complexity of history. This was the old religion, an ancient artifact to be cherished, and I was into the vintage vibe.
The strict “no birth control” policy and the control of women’s bodies was something I deeply struggled with in the beginning, sure. I was planning to get married during my freshman year of college, and I wasn’t ready to have a child that early.
But I was trying not to think about that one too much. There was a lot I was trying not to think about when it came to my reproductive and sexual health during that time in my life.
The more I read and learned and studied, the less I was able to reconcile “the rules,” which later became so dark, twisted, and at times contradictory that I didn’t know which way was up.
Though my husband never forced himself on me physically after that one horrible night, he’d use guilt and pressure and manipulation to get me to do what he wanted. It was something we fought about all the time, as he demanded sexual acts that were forbidden by the faith he’d wanted me to convert to.
Giving your husband oral sex, for instance, was a sin, as it couldn’t result in pregnancy. However, it was not a sin for a husband to have sex with his pregnant wife or his post-menopausal wife, even though these can’t result in pregnancy either. Go figure.
And any form of birth control gets you a ticket to hell, except for the natural method of monitoring your cycle and avoiding sex during ovulation. (But if my husband demanded sex during my fertile window, then bam, I guess I had to have another baby.)
You know what else is a sin? Masturbation. So technically, I’d be driving him to sin if I didn’t satisfy him and he had to go and satisfy himself.
I was taught that my husband is supposed to be my godly authority, but my husband mostly wanted me to do things in the bedroom that the priest, a man who was never married and who lived a celibate life, told me during confession I was not allowed to do.
So who was I supposed to obey? Or disobey?
Dressing immodestly is another big sin for women, because the onus is on us if we give men impure thoughts. In the traditional Catholic setting, this means women have to wear head coverings and long skirts in church. It’s also strongly encouraged that women avoid wearing pants altogether, and never dress in tight or low-cut tops.
Once, during a visit with my husband’s family, my mother-in-law told me I had to change my top because the one I wore was too indecent for the dinner table.
I had tried so hard to be respectful of their modesty culture, choosing my clothes for the visit carefully. The top I was asked to change out of showed my collarbones, but no cleavage.
I grew distraught and cried alone in my room for over an hour. The tears weren’t just about a shirt. They were about the loss of my autonomy, which my mom and dad had always strongly encouraged. My parents raised me to be a strong and independent woman who could stand up for herself, and here I was, going against everything that had been instilled in me.
It was also about the unfair accusation. I was sinning by showing a small portion of my skin, but men who acted on their sexual thoughts or desires because of what I wore were less to blame.
Escape is not easy, but it’s absolutely necessary
Psychologically, I was traumatized by this religious cult for a long time. It’s been 13 years since I’ve left traditional Catholicism, and I’m just starting to be able to call this a cult without feeling like I’m exaggerating or being overly dramatic.
I believe I was in a cult. I can say that now.
And to leave this religion was the deadliest sin of all, on par with committing spiritual suicide. That’s what I was told by my holy authorities, and I truly feared it.
I stayed for years because I was taught that I would burn in hell if I left. And when I was finally able to face that fear — to stop going to that church and following their rules — it was one of the most transformational moments of my life. That, and giving birth to my son.
Leaving was an extreme act of bravery on my part after living in fear for so long.
If you’re a woman who wants to follow a religion that doesn’t allow you to use birth control (or pants), and you’re married, and you love the idea of having child after child and doing nothing else, then I say good for you. Go right ahead. Live and let live.
It’s the manipulating women and pressuring them into a life they don’t want, a life controlled by men, that I can’t stand for.
For those women who feel trapped in a religion and pressured to do things they do not want to do, this is where I draw the line. This is where I advise you to do what you need to do and run far away — even though that’s never, ever easy.
It was one of the most mentally difficult ordeals I have ever been through, and I was fortunate enough to have family who could help me through it. Not everyone has that.
For those who need more help and have nowhere to turn, know that there are other women who have been through it and are willing to be there for you.
Women like me.
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