I never really thought about writing a follow-up to memoir about being raised in and exiting the my family religion as well as my abusive marriage until several people asked me about it. The more I thought about it, the more intriguing it sounded. When raised in a strict religious household where you are forbidden from regularly associating with the outside world and taught that the end times was right around the corner, striking out on your own comes with some major challenges.

I haven’t written much so far but here’s a very rough draft. My Short-Lived Life at Being Perfect can be found on Amazon and is free with Kindle Unlimited.

Introduction

If you haven’t read my memoir, My Short-Lived Life at Being Perfect then here’s the condensed version: I grew up a third-generation Jehovah’s Witness with a family holding very high hopes that I would get baptized, become a full time preacher (aka, pioneer) or work at the headquarters (aka, Bethel) and, of course, marry a “brother” in high standing within the organization. Needless to say, nothing went as planned. At the age of eighteen I did give in and got baptized which meant I figuratively signed a contract in blood stating that I have now forfeited my life and freedom to the JW organization. If I hadn’t given in to baptism and left the organization I wouldn’t have been disfellowshipped (or excommunicated), meaning I would still have contact with my JW friends and family. Once you commit yourself by baptism, that is not the case. If you walk away from the organization or commit a sin that is worthy of disfellowshipping, you’re ostracized from everyone. I never fully believed in the teachings of the JW’s and had little to no interest in being a member, however, when you are born into this group and your family is fully dedicated and everyone you’ve ever known is involved in this life, a part of you believes you have no choice but to accept what you’ve been dealt and you should shut up and power through and deal with it.

In order to move out of the family home I made the grave decision to marry Mark at the ripe old age of twenty. While he did hold a position of some authority in the church (aka, Kingdom Hall) he was physically abusive, dismissive, and had a drinking problem. Prior to becoming a Witness, he was a cocaine addict and unsuccessful dealer. What eventually led to my disfellowshipping was getting completely fed up with the fact that I was being told I needed to remain a faithful “Christian” wife by the congregation elders despite the abuse I was enduring.

As the end of the world has been “right around the corner” since the day this religion was established, like so many others in this organization, I didn’t attend college and had no skills needed to earn a decent living. In addition, as associating with non-JW’s (aka, worldly people) is prohibited, when I was disfellowshipped and was let go from the steady job that took me forever to find…the word “lost” didn’t begin to describe what I felt. All I knew, without a doubt, was that I wasn’t going back to my old life.

1995 or 96

Robert and I were huddled in one of the empty booths at Earl’s. I had the want ads open in front of me and pulled a cigarette out of the half empty pack. Since my separation from Mark, getting disfellowshipped, and losing the one and only job I loved, I had taken up smoking again. JW’s are forbidden from smoking and it’s a disfellowshipping offense. However, during my rebellious teenage years it was a habit I took up while ditching my high school classes. Smoking during the eighties didn’t have as strong a stigma as it has now, especially among teenagers.

“You should go into sales,” announced Robert while loading up his coffee with sugar. It was 11:00 pm but Robert could drink coffee round the clock and still sleep through 8. magnitude earthquake.

“Why would I do that? I hate people.”

“I think you’d be good at it.”

“No.”

“Why not? You…”

“Stop it. Just stop. My life, not yours.” I had tried to explain my background to Robert but unless you’ve lived it, there’s no comprehension. I grew up knocking on stranger’s doors to convince them to read the Watchtower and Awake magazines and convince them to join my religion. If that’s not a form of sales then I don’t know what it is and there were three things I was certain of: 1 — I hated doing it and, 2 — it’s nearly impossible to sell something to anyone if you don’t believe in it yourself, and 3 — I hate convincing anyone to do anything, try anything, or buy anything therefore, I hate sales.

I couldn’t completely fault Robert, though. Despite being significantly older than me (he was in his late thirties at this time) and going through a nasty divorce, he was quite the wide-eyed optimist. Maybe not when it came to his own life, but he loved nothing more than being everyone else’s cheerleader.

Robert refused to let go of his dream of me becoming a sales person as I continued to scan the want ads and suck on my menthol, Jon, the server at Earl’s mercifully approached our booth.

“OK, what do you guys want?” he muttered while setting a pot of coffee on the table and taking a seat next to Robert.

I sighed and grabbed the menu. “Guess I should grab some dinner.”

“French fries are not dinner, sweetie.” John responded.

“I’m getting something else, hold on.” I said. Jon rolled his eyes.

Earl’s Home Cookin’ (or simply Earl’s) was a divey little coffee shop in Orange, California. It’s tagline was “Open 25 Hours” and the clientele mainly consisted of college students from nearby Chapman University, partiers looking for a place to sober up after a night of drinking, and souls like Robert and I, attempting to navigate our way through major life transitions and not big drinkers. So instead of crying over a beer, we cried over our coffees. Much cheaper than a bar. Earls was actually much cheaper than most places in the neighborhood and it showed; the decor hadn’t changed since the 70s and there was a reason I mostly ate only the fries. It was popular with smokers though as the area that was once an outdoor patio with booths was now completely enclosed with screens so everyone could smoke.

“I guess I’ll have a cheeseburger with fries.” I decided.

“Great.” Jon mumbled in his deadpan Jon way. You couldn’t help but love Jon the curmudgeon. One of my favorite idiosyncrasies of his was how he would wait until his Afro was entirely gray before he dyed it jet black. He simply didn’t give a shit and I loved that.

As for Robert…here’s the story: right around the time Mark and I separated, my girlfriend Katie introduced me to Robert who she met through mutual friends. He was also recently separated but he had four kids. We struck up a very short-lived romantic relationship which turned into a tight, long-term friendship. In the years to come, due to our age difference, Robert would become the older brother that I always wanted. As we stood by each other, he would watch me celebrate for the first time Christmas, my birthday, and every other significant event that I was unable to participate in during my JW days. He will be an important part of this story.

*********

It was just after midnight when I unlocked the door to my apartment in Anaheim. I was new to living by myself and although I loved it, at the same time, I was terrified. Not terrified at the thought of taking care of myself and standing on my own two feet (I was determined to make that happen), but terrified of the crazy, frothing at the mouth, killer that might be lying in wait. Throughout my life I was taught that the world was full of people murdering one another left and right and there was no way of avoiding it if you lived without a big strong husband to protect you or worse, you left the JW religion.

While I knew this to be untrue, I still instinctively peeked behind the wall separating the living room from the kitchen, then my bedroom closet, then the shower. My tabby-persian cat and best friend, Beamer, followed me as I performed this nightly routine. Once I confirmed that the fictitious Anaheim Strangler hadn’t broken into my apartment I popped open a can of food for Beamer and went about my other routine of getting ready for bed.

Earlier I checked my voicemail and had two messages from temp agencies returning my calls for interviews and one from the estranged husband. By this point it had been a few months since I mustered the courage to walk out on him. The cheap answering machine I owned beeped once to alert the caller to leave their message when there were no other messages from previous callers and beeped multiple times when there were already messages from earlier callers. Mark had something to say about this whenever he called and noticed that I had messages on there.

“Who’s calling you? Why do you have so many messages?” He would ask. Of course it was none of his business as I made it clear I wanted nothing to do with him and the marriage was over. But in his warped mind and in the warped mind of JW’s, he was still legally and spiritually my husband and, according to them, he owned me. (Side note: writing that out made my skin crawl.) There was one such call on there from him that day and although I wasn’t about to return that call, I still carried the uneasy feeling that I was doing something wrong by ignoring him.

Although I was happy to be free from the religion that consumed my entire life and felt the most enormous sense of relief at not having to attend five hours of church meetings every week along with weekend preaching work, I couldn’t help feeling guilt as to what this was doing to my family. In addition, my family and supposed life-long friends felt compelled to shun me thanks to the organization, therefore, I couldn’t help feeling alone. At this point in my life, Robert was one of my very few friends. Very few.

I’ve always been socially awkward; I still am to this day. And another common theme my readers will discover is how the majority of my friendships involve men. As well as being awkward, I’ve never been very feminine either. I loathe fashion and shopping. I’ve never had an interest in decorating, in fact, where I live now, none of my furniture matches, the wallpaper in my kitchen is from the 1970’s and I’m perfectly fine with it. For many years I lived without any furniture other than a one or two beanbag chairs and a mattress. I can’t stand jewelry (my tattoos are my jewelry), and I would much rather watch The Hangover or Goodfellas over a romance any day and Breaking Bad over Sex and the City. With the few girlfriends I’ve had over the years, I’ve attempted to play the part of the girly-girl but gave up when I finally accepted who I am. Yes, several of my male friends most likely were initially interested in me for reasons other than friendship, but it usually wasn’t long before I was accepted as “one of the guys,” or the Elaine Benes of the group. During this period, most of our free time was spent at Earl’s.

First there was Robert who you were introduced to earlier. As mentioned he was also going through a divorce and currently living with his parents in his childhood home in Orange. Robert was a frustrated musician that built guitars for a living. His kids were living with their mother and her new unemployed boyfriend. That living arrangement would change before long. Through Robert I met several other colorful characters including Craig who was barely twenty at the time and an aspiring drummer and comedian but was currently working as a barista at PJ’s Coffee House. Many years later, Craig would become a successful voice-over actor. Then there was Benny. Everyone that frequented Earl’s knew Benny as he was a regular fixture. Benny was a big guy, a little under 6-feet, weighing around 250-pounds. He worked odd jobs here and there; he was always up for some sort of scheme.

In my memoir I discuss a friend by the name of “Neil.” Actually, Neil didn’t start out as so much a friend as he was a distraction when my marriage to Mark began falling apart although in time we did build a brief friendship after my separation. In time, through Neil, i would meet others that would make an impact on my post-JW life.

**********

While looking for a new job, I kept busy working at — of all places — a telemarking company that sold timeshares. They were constantly hiring as their turnover was nonstop so it was guaranteed work while looking for something more stable. Despite the support I had from Roger and other acquaintances I met through him, I was still very lonely. Since being excommunicated, I received a couple of phone calls from relatives that chose to cut me off over their religion, but those calls were primarily for the sole purpose of convincing me to return to the faith. This wasn’t going to happen although I didn’t have the courage at this point in my life to tell them. My family still had a stronghold over me, both mentally and emotionally. This would be the case for several years to come.

Having been at Earl’s with Roger and Company until two in the morning, I woke up around noon which was fine as I worked the second shift and didn’t have to be at the office until five. As I walked into my kitchen to make coffee and feed my Cat, Beemer, I noticed the light flashing on my answering machine. It was Mark. Again. At some point during the morning, he called me, yet again, to harass me for walking out.

The old, familiar guilt came rushing over me. Despite the years of abuse I endured while shackled to him, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I did something wrong. The last time I’d seen him was a couple of weeks prior when I made the grave mistake of meeting him for a drink. As we sat at the bar, he wanted me to explain for 4,362nd time why I was leaving. I reminded him of the letter I wrote just before leaving and in response, in front of everyone in the restaurant he screamed, “That’s bullshit!” I stormed out of the restaurant, telling a table of guys who were laughing at me to mind their business and drove home to find a voicemail message from Mark, attempting to make me feel like crap. He told me what an immature bitch I was, that the therapy I was receiving at the time was doing me no good and that I should just give up. As of this writing, if someone had the nerve to leave a message like that for me, I wouldn’t think of dignifying it with a response. There’s absolutely no point in trying to reason with anyone who plays the gaslighting game.

Shockingly, I allowed this voicemail to make me feel like shit, so after finishing my coffee, I popped open a Newcastle and hopped in the shower. When you’re in a state of hopelessness, nothing feels better than shower drinking. I still had work that day, but your average telemarking company is full of coworkers that are either high or day drinking, so I wasn’t too concerned.

Thanks to my fear of living alone, I strictly showered during daytime hours but I had to admit that living by myself, for the first time in my life, was exhilarating. I may have been raised an only child but never have anything to myself. My bedroom technically wasn’t “my bedroom” as I wasn’t allowed any privacy whatsoever. I wasn’t allowed to lock my door, and my parents made it very clear to me that they could come and go without having to knock, even during my teenage years. And under no circumstances was I permitted to leave the house without asking them, even after I turned eighteen. As far as I was concerned, despite going through an ugly divorce, losing all my friends and family due to said divorce, experiencing difficulty finding steady work, I was loving my freedom. Something many of us take for granted.



***Part 2 coming soon. Brenda Thornlow is an author from Brooklyn, NY. More of her work can be found on Amazon.com***