MENTAL HEALTH | ASD | RELIGION
Glass Wings
They may be made of patched up glass, but I’ve found my wings.
NOTE: This story deals with religious trauma and references to religious beliefs and mental illness.
I have always found stained glass fascinating. The color, the way the light reflects off the prismatic surfaces. That’s probably why I incorporate it into my books so often. It’s something broken, yet pieced together in a way that creates a beautiful mosaic that speaks to the soul.
I am a broken thing, too. My heart has been shattered and stitched together piece by piece with sharp needles and tattered threads. Some fragments are sharper than others. They poke into my ribs, slice through veins and make me bleed. I cauterize them with fire and keep stitching.
My dreams have always been big. Brighter than the sun. I wanted to be a singer, famous like Celine Dion. I wanted to be a storm chaser (BEFORE Twister came out in theaters). An author, publishing the stories that clouded my head nonstop. But fundamentalist religion drew me in, robbing me of my dreams. Of my youth.
I’d always loved God. As a child, I used to raise my arms in the air before I went to sleep and pretend I was giving Him a hug. The days of innocence had cemented in my little heart, and I thought most everyone and everything was loving, and those that weren’t? Just needed a good hug.
It wasn’t until I turned nine that the world darkened. For no discernable reason, depression settled on my little shoulders. My Nana still recounts the change in me. I was happy, carefree — spinning in the fields at recess, obsessing over princess dresses and my favorite movies… and then I was sad.
My battle with mental illness, coupled with undiagnosed autism and ADHD, created a whirlwind that, as a child and adolescent, made me desperate for answers. Why wasn’t my teddy bear God listening to me? Why didn’t I feel the joy I did before?
I started having panic attacks. I thought it was the devil. Demons must be creeping up on me. The world was ending. Would I make it to heaven? I pleaded with God for mercy. Why would I feel this way?
My mom and stepdad had started going to a fundamentalist Baptist church that taught dating was a sin. They pulled me out of public school by the time I was thirteen and they had three children in quick succession. Change, change, change. I was a romantic at heart. I wanted to date. I wanted my routine back. I wanted my joy.
There was a fundamentalist Pentecostal church down the road that didn’t prohibit dating. They had lively services that seemed joyful. As a desperate 14-year-old, it lured me in like a moth to the flame.
The music swept me away. They gave me the opportunity to sing. I learned to play piano by watching the pastor’s wife’s feet on the organ foot pedals and the chord book function on my old keyboard. From there, I started writing songs and performing them at church.
Music was my life. Ladies didn’t chase tornadoes or write fantasy stories. Magic was of the devil, anyway. I stopped wearing pants, makeup, jewelry, watching tv, going to the movie theater, and a long list of other things that I found out would now send me to hell. I molded myself into what I thought was the perfect Christian (unlike those “worldly” people).
But it didn’t stop the darkness, or the storms that came upon me. It didn’t cure my mental illness, no matter how many times I begged for healing. I sacrificed, I complied, I spent all my spare time at church. Surely, I just had to try harder?
At eighteen, I got married fresh out of high school to a boy I met from a church function. We were madly in love, and the church encouraged young marriage because it was better to marry than to burn, after all (if you catch my drift). I squeezed in two semesters of community college while I was pregnant with our first child, giving birth to our second four years later.
We struggled. Financially, emotionally — you name it. We were wholly unprepared for independent life and adult problems. And the church drained us like a sieve. If we didn’t give everything, hell it was. If we didn’t comply, a lake of fire awaited. Missing services was not an option.
My mental health deteriorated. I started having darker thoughts. More panic attacks and nonverbal meltdowns. Any therapy beyond pastoral counseling was greatly discouraged. Even medication. There were services where people would get “healed” and encouraged to leave medication on the altar as proof of their faith. (I always wonder what happened to those bottles of pills.)
I tried writing again. I wrote a short story — a fantasy that was supposed to be a Christian allegory. Excited and nervous, I asked my pastor’s wife to read it. She looked at me hesitantly and said, “As long as it doesn’t have any magic in it.” It totally had magic in it. I asked her to read it, anyway. She gave it back to me before the next service with a grim look on her face and zero comment. My heart shattered, and I realized I should probably repent for offending her.
The shift started around 2012–2013. I had my youngest in 2012. Prior to this, my oldest child had been diagnosed with autism, and as I learned more about autism, I slowly put the pieces of my own neurology together. I sought a formal diagnosis in 2013, at age 27. When I received one, I felt elated and relieved to finally have an answer to why I am the way I am. I told people in my life. Some were receptive, others skeptical. I texted my pastor’s wife. Radio silence. It hurt, because her approval was one I sought desperately. It was like a stamp from heaven itself, and I was a people-pleaser.
Though I’d been taught that people outside the church’s particular beliefs were basically sinners bound for hell, I connected with people in the autistic adult community. I was also plugged in online with moms who’d been pregnant at the same time as me. It turns out… these people were actually pretty nice. They supported me, even though I could be judgmental at times (something I’m ashamed of now). They became the friends I desperately needed.
My husband got a job in another town, and we moved in 2015. I knew no one, and we joined another fundamentalist Pentecostal church. My mental health deteriorated further, but something else changed. I started questioning things. Why was it a sin to wear nail polish? Did wearing makeup really make one a Jezebel? Why did I long to feel the breeze on my bare arms? I hated the ratty ends of my thigh-length hair. Would I really lose angelic protection if I trimmed it? Was it really a sin to be LGBT+?
All these questions scared me. I shouldn’t be thinking these things. Surely it was the devil? So I prayed harder. Only I felt miles away from the warm, fuzzy feeling I expected to feel. It was like throwing words at the ceiling. I felt like a fraud every time I walked into the church, so I started finding excuses to stay home. It frustrated my husband, because he didn’t want to go alone.
I found out one of my sisters was a lesbian, and then things really shifted. She is a wonderful person whom I love with all of my heart. And I didn’t feel one drop of judgement toward her. It was then that I realized how much I’d changed.
No. Not changed.
Revealed.
These rules, these doctrines, these layers — they weren’t me. They weren’t meant for me. Perhaps I would go to hell, but I couldn’t go to a version of heaven where people like my sister wouldn’t be welcome. I wanted to find the core of my soul and shed the toxicity that had kept me bound and scared most of my life.
One night, lying in bed, I started crying to my husband. I told him I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t live that way. The pressure to be perfect was eating me alive. The hair, the skirts — all of it. I couldn’t confess everything just yet, but I got some of it off my chest at last.
I tried to go to a few more services for his sake, but when the preacher started ranting about the California ban on conversion therapy, I found my strength and walked out for the last time.
After leaving, more and more information came to light. The amount of abuse that had been swept under the rug at my former church astounded me. Sexual abuse, coercion, spiritual abuse, racism. I’d tried to keep those rose-colored glasses on for the sake of my sanity, telling myself it was just the doctrine that was messed up, but those in power had blood on their hands. The evil went all the way to the root. And the trauma it caused brought grief, guilt at not knowing and protecting people… and so, so much anger.
It’s been six long years since I last walked out of that church. Lots of therapy. Lots of soul-searching. I eschew dogmatic, religious things (they bring me anxiety). I came out with my family intact (a miracle in itself) and we’ll be celebrating our 20th wedding anniversary this year. My husband is very loving and my kids are blossoming as individuals.
I never thought I’d be free. Never thought I’d find myself. But strength is not determined by following someone else’s rules.
Here is my truth:
Be true to yourself, love others, and stand up for what’s right.
They may be made of patched up glass, but I’ve found my wings. And you’d better believe they fly.
Heather Carter is a fantasy author living in the St. Louis, MO area with her husband, two kids, and an extremely spoiled cat. When not writing, she enjoys making music, reading spooky things, and drinking copious amounts of coffee.
