Hope After Spiritual Abuse

Content warning: suicidal ideation

“Oh no, no, no, honey. That’s spiritual abuse.” The words of the hospital chaplain surprised and baffled me. Could that be it? Could that be the reason I had felt uneasy, pressured, and confused for months? Could that be the reason I felt exhausted from striving so hard to please my pastors . . . and God? Could that be the reason I felt so lonely and worthless? Could spiritual abuse be the main reason behind my depression and suicidal thoughts that led me here: the psychiatric ward of a hospital?

That is where I was in May of last year.

My painful exit from my church of seven years came after enduring yet another staff meeting where I felt separated from my own body, mind, and spirit. Something just didn’t feel right. Something was wrong.

I slowly became aware of the fact that I was being used and taken advantage of. I was not valued as a person, only for what I could contribute. I was being pressured to act against my own conscience and to participate in a system that I knew was manipulating and mistreating people. This time, for once, I listened to my own voice inside. This time was the last time, and I knew it. It was time to get out.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that in the previous few years, my own sense of agency was being slowly and subtly stripped away. Pastors with smooth words, using slick flattery and clever twisting of scripture, had managed to convince me that they could do no wrong. I was defending them at every turn against naysayers and critics and working myself half to death serving them, all along believing it was God’s will for me to do so.

The once gentle faith of my youth had turned into constant striving, sacrificing, and hectic service. I had no peace. I was caught up in the modern-day American Evangelical church—coffee bars, concert-style worship, and flashy preachers included. I played along for a long time. Over and over again I silenced the voice inside that was telling me something was wrong. I thought I was the problem.

I was bothered by some of the things I saw behind the scenes. People being taken advantage of. People, including myself, being treated harshly or publicly humiliated for raising questions or having dissenting voices. Money was being used in questionable ways, mainly to benefit the pastors. The church was doing some good things, but they were deeply hurting people along the way.

Then I began asking myself whether church was nothing more than a business more focused on numbers, money, and image than on serving and shepherding the people within its walls. The pastors seemed hungry for results and success and would do anything to reach their personal goals.

About six months after I began asking questions within my own mind, I decided to let these thoughts out, even though I was afraid to. As soon as I brought up my concerns to the pastors, I was made into an enemy. The Bible was used to shame me into complying with their demand for blind trust. I was spoken about from stage. I was ignored. My family was ignored. I felt totally betrayed by my pastors that I trusted, these people who I thought were my friends.

I was already burned-out and exhausted, and now I was being told that I “crushed” my pastors whom I loved and served. I began to despise myself. I thought everything was all my fault. No matter how much I apologized, I couldn’t restore our relationship. My entire identity was wrapped up in what I did for the church, and since I was no longer on the church staff, I thought my life was meaningless. I felt trapped, I felt like a failure, I felt such shame. And I suppose I wanted to punish myself for it, or at least escape my feelings, by ending my life.

Out of desperation, I reached out to a friend that I trusted, and this person had the wisdom and compassion to advise me to go to the emergency room. I spent the first three days in the hospital making every effort to avoid talking about my church experiences. Until one day the staff bluntly told me that I must be holding something back. My case didn’t make sense. Because though I had recently lost my mother, and that was part of it, I also had a loving and supportive husband, great kids, and loving friends. They told me I was intelligent, kind, and self-aware. They were curious about what piece of the puzzle I may have been leaving out. It was then that I got the courage to talk about my church experiences, and the topic of spiritual abuse was brought up.

I spent months meeting with professional and biblical counselors. I talked with a couple of friends outside of my church who were pastors in other states. All confirmed that what I had been through was spiritual abuse. It probably took me six months of talking about it and reading about it to believe it was true. Listening to the Uncertain podcast was part of my journey.

A year later, I am still coming to grips with this issue that has become a part of my story. I now know that spiritual abuse is real. Religious trauma is real. And the consequences can be devastating to a person’s mental health, I know this firsthand.

I’m grateful for friends and family who have shown me such love and support over the past year. I’m thankful for the online community and the authors whose books have made me feel seen and understood. My healing journey is far from over, but I hope that by sharing a part of my story, others out there will feel seen and know that they have worth and that there is hope for them beyond spiritual abuse.

Alicia Kidd lives with her family outside of Columbus, Ohio. She shares her poetry, prayers, and thoughts at ourtrueshepherd.com. She hopes other spiritual abuse survivors will feel seen and find encouragement in her writing.