I grew up in a cult.

Tessa L. H. Lovelace
Nov 4 · 1 min read

and, to be honest, I didn’t find that out until I was well past drinking age.


My earliest knowledge of music was being taught to sing along with tape-recorded songs praising, invoking, and offering life and soul to the cult’s deity.

I learned the chants and rituals pretty early. I even convinced a cousin to perform the initiation, which was mostly just repeating some words, and before I was double digits, I’d participated in an invocation of a deity to control and direct my action, thought, and future.

That’s a lot for a seven-year-old to bargain away, especially since it required committing your soul.

But, technically, my roommate later sold me their soul, so it’s all good, right?


Except, over twenty years later, that same song taught by rote and recording to my young mind is the internal music running right alongside the decisions that lead to writing this, and the music outside is blaring almost painfully loud to block out the intrusive melody from the cult I never consented to joining.


That’s what this is about, mom.

That’s what this is about, dad.

This is about consent.


This is about the fact that *I* had to teach *you* about consent, as a concept.


This is about you *immediately* weaponizing consent against me, while continuing to ignore your own violations of my boundaries.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade