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Confusing Emotions After Assault Pt 1

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Warning: Please do not read further if sexual trauma is too much of a trigger. I understand.  It is not my intention to poke at old wounds, or prompt anxiety and nightmares. I myself have needed a few breaks from writing this as it really messes up my head.  These words - my small voice - I’ll share primarily for those who believe. You, the strong-willed survivors, ready to discuss, support, spread awareness and address puzzle pieces which are misunderstood. You comprehend that all sex assault cases don't appear in cookie cutter form, recognizable at once. Perhaps your own was unbelievable. It's for the empaths and activists, here with an open heart and mind. For me, unravelling the pain and confusion publicly for the first time. Off my shoulders, and into the big wide world.  This is not revenge, nor The Dirty. I’m very against online bullying.  My abusers won’t lose jobs prospects, their family/friendships, have their facial identity revealed or be outwardly affected

Surviving Through Art (And A Little Humour)

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  I want to discuss my sister, briefly, in the safest way I can. The majority of ex-Message Believers I’ve connected with know her more than they know me, because I was gone at 16. So you - if that's you - you'll know who I'm referring to. You’ll agree she is the kindest, gentlest soul. My heart aches as I realize all she's been through. I wish I could save her but when I try to show her the newspaper articles or the history archives revealing the facts on Branhamism, she tells me “Becky, it makes me happy,” with the saddest eyes. While reading Charity Rissler’s recent memoir and how she managed the confusion of  her Message childhood through art, I'm reminded of Josephine. Her talents always fascinate me. I believe that although she never escaped the cult, she's past the worst times of her life and has gained some independence. So here’s an artistic visual into her past. Our past, despite each of our quirks and different paths. We shared the same family, the sa

Racist, Violent And Sexist Quotes by Doomsday Prophet, William Branham

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Wikipedia photo of William Marrion Branham   Racism Hybreeding, hybreeding, oh, how terrible, hybreeding. ...What white woman would want her baby to be a mulatto by a colored man? -   1960, Nov 13. Condemnation By Representation . The earth, itself, is a womb. Where did God place His seeds? Where is seeds put? In a womb. God put seeds. And what does man do? Like devils, in a womb, he'll make a child deformed if he can. That's what devils has done on the earth, hybreeding , making creatures, is not so. I'd better leave off of that; I'll never get to the rest of this here, I got wrote down. You know what I mean. That's the reason there's a deformed creation about to be cast. God is finished with it. The world is all out of order. Everything is wrong. The streams are polluted. The air is polluted. Filth! Stink!  - 1962, Apr 1. Wisdom Versus Faith What are we doing when nations are breaking, the sea roaring, man's heart failing for fear, perplexed of time, all

The Books That Shaped Me

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            We were never short of literature. Borrowed, inherited, or bought, they substituted modern entertainment. Rules varied. Mom hated A Wrinkle in Time and The Hobbit; though allowed at times, Little Women or Anne of Green Gables she begrudgingly called Women’s Lib,  Feminism.  Harry Potter was way off the wish list.  The Chronicles Of Narnia were not only encouraged, my father interpreted Biblical types and shadows throughout the classic fantasy novels and used this to his advantage when gaining followers for his own movement within The Message. The Lion was God, and The Witch was The Devil. Dearest C.S. Lewis knew that getting children to read religious books might be impossible, so he retold Christianity in fantasy form . So he’d say .  Yet, I was pleased he found them so and in these books, I escaped reality. The magical Wardrobe led way to a forest similar to the  one I explored; except in drab real-life there were no Fauns or talking animals, just the bubbling creek, the

My Struggle With Christianity

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My spouse, son and I  One of the last occasions I visited a c hurch was in this photo, a little over a year ago. It was not entirely a religious function but a wedding - a Message wedding. The preacher who once snapped scissors and swung  his crutches at me conducted the ceremony. His complexion was zealously  flushed, contrasting his collar and even whiter locks of hair. I don't mention names for the sake of peace. His inheritance is worth millions, and in no time my inbox might overflow with threatening legal letters. I’ll choose my battles, though I can promise you every word I say stems from a trauma memory. The newlyweds were young and beautiful. The fresh-faced bride, my spouse’s relative, had natural hair let down in styled curls. How did Message woman manage to look so effortlessly gorgeous?! Was she loved, confident? How bittersweet.  I'd longed to marry in this church, my father walking me down the aisle. My first escape plan involved the fantasy of marriage. But here