From Mary to Magdalene

From Mary to Magdalene: How I Joined a Cult

Or, Unravelling the Past to Free the Present

Part I

The almost-empty bus rumbled and bounced along the decrepit road.  My house was one of the first stops on the route so, by choice and design, I sat alone.  White capris, glittery blue eyeshadow, curled and sprayed fringe, I had woken hours before in preparation for this momentous day, my first day of high school. I was nervous, keyed-up for my new adventure—finally, the world was opening up before me, my path clear and well-lit.  All was possible, and I was ready.

It would take at least another thirty minutes before we arrived, my first time in a public school since a disastrous first-grade year which was Never To Be Spoken Of Again. Since then, I had been hidden away, protected and sheltered by nuns in the local Catholic school. As we bumped over dirt roads, I entertained myself with idyllic visions: thrilling new friends and the fun we would have together; how, finally, I would be courageous, universally loved, guaranteed easy success in academics and friendship and sports and absolutely anything that caught my fancy; and, above all else, what an incredible sensation I would create simply by walking through the door in all my glory—just like in a Brat Pack movie!

“What’r-you-lookin’-at???” Only vaguely, slightly, just outside of that feathery edge of consciousness did these gravelly words even register as I gently floated in my reverie, a silver-backed, pink, flowered mylar balloon rippling, catching the bright, late-summer sun—singing to myself about All The Glorious Things That Were About To Occur, what with the Hills Alive and All that Jazz, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

“Hey! What’r-you-lookin’-at?” I didn’t know anyone on the bus—or at the school for that matter—so the sounds just drifted by as my eyes caught the wee little—orange? yellow? red?— butterflies swiftly flying past us outside the windows.  “HEY! What’r-you-lookin’-at???

HEY!  WHAT. ARE. YOU. LOOKIN’.  AT.”  I hastily glanced up.  For no reason I could discern, she appeared to be talking to me.  Icy hot then frigid cold seemed to pour over my aura, my head, my brow—Copper?  Silver? Gold?  I had no idea— my face turning red, my hands trembling, my heart fluttering, beating faster. 

“Me?” I squeaked out, through a now-constricted throat, “Nothing...”  “Better keep it that way, FRED,” she barked, a jagged, barbed voice. She took out a pack of cigarettes.  With cracked, unpainted lips, she pulled one out, flipping open a scratched, bronze Zippo at the same time:  SNAP!  Lighting the tip, taking a gigantic drag, blowing the smoke out directly into my face. Dark bangs rested limp and sweaty on her forehead, her brown eyes almost completely obscured. She looked years older than I felt. “I’m gonna make your life hell.”

And so she did.  Day in, day out, all through freshman year and into sophomore year, when my friends and I finally got our driver’s licenses and no longer had to suffer the horror and insult of riding the bus.  She was persistent, always following me—through the days, weeks, months, years—until our graduation ceremony, yelling things out in hallways, starting rumors, sowing lies.  I was perpetually stressed, stretched, strained—thin, ancient, brittle glass ready to shatter—never knowing when or how or where a strike would come.  Sometimes months would go by and she wouldn’t say a thing; other times she would find and taunt me multiple times in one day.  

The almost-constant sense of being watched, targeted, and bullied utterly shredded my personality, my already fragile teenage girl-Self, my inner knowing.  I was torn apart, undone.  When I wasn’t in afterschool sports, student government, nerd-gatherings, whatever, anything to keep my mind off of it—I spent hours hiding away in my bedroom—now painted black and purple—going over what, exactly, must be wrong with me to be so hated by someone who didn’t even know me.  Sometimes I thought that I must be horrifically ugly or stupid or something even worse (I couldn’t even imagine what the “even worse” was).  I continually wondered how and why this could be happening to me, obsessively going over it again and again and again.  Yet, deep down in my secret, sacred, resilient inner core, I knew I was none of those things.

In no way did she ever know me, or me, her—the only place our lives touched outside of school was where our parents were casually friendly with one another; we lived in a tiny town.  I never, ever, ever told anyone that this was going on; only the students, bearing witness in our small bubble of a school, knew.

Many years later, I was informed that she had been sexually assaulted in the eighth grade.  When this was revealed I wondered—yes, I immediately knew—that she had been taking this horrendous, harrowing experience out on me.  Sometimes, on bad days, it’s still challenging for me to find compassion for her.  Feelings of absolute helplessness and hopelessness…these are the same days I have a hard time finding love and compassion for myself, too.

Throughout those four agonizing years, I maintained absolute silence.  At first this was due to shock, then as an intentionally chosen act of power, then it quickly dissolved into the opposite:  paralyzed by the pain of what was happening, I was profoundly ashamed—and this paralysis stretched out, coiling like so many poisonous snakes into other parts and times of my life, reaching out roots that sunk deep, deep down, stealthy and insidious, growing in more places than I can ever, even now, be wholly, consciously aware of.

I buried my worth, my thoughts, my feelings as deeply within myself as I could manage, always outwardly acting as if it didn’t matter.  I deliberately gave her nothing: nothing emotional, nothing physical, no reaction whatsoever.  I realized only later that I had given her everything—that in not confronting her, I had given away my voice.  I had given away my sovereignty. I had given away my Sweet Self.  This primed me to later join and become an intrinsic part of an unhealthy cult—one experience grew directly from the rich, fertile soil of the other.

Stay tuned for Part II of this story!

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(The first story in this series can be found here: http://modpriestess.blogspot.com/2016/03/my-life-has-always-been-profoundly.html)

*Art by Claudia Lucia McKinney