My Abuse Story (Part 1): Surviving My ‘Classical Christian Education’

Content warning: mentions of sexual abuse, sexual assault, suicidal ideation, and eating disorders.

A while back, my colleagues casually asked me about my high school experience, a culturally common question in the country where I now live. I was stumped. How do you keep things light-hearted when the answer to that question is: I went to a fundamentalist religious school in rural Idaho where I was sexually abused for years? I know how to ruin an after-work happy hour, but I’m not so sure how to explain that time of my life. Bear with me as I do my best here.

I started attending this classical Christian school as a freshman in high school, while my little sisters both started at the same school in sixth grade. Leaders at my school boasted that we were the first in the Classical Christian school movement.

My first day was overshadowed by the fact that I had accidentally worn the elementary school uniform instead of the high school uniform. Years later, I learned to laugh about the mistake when my peers brought it up, which, of course, as stereotypical, malicious teenagers they would.

At the school, it seemed like everyone knew each other. My parents had neglected to take me to the orientation day before the start of the year, so I didn’t know who the other new students were, and they did not seem eager to out themselves as being just as insecure as I was.

Students would save each other’s seats by putting their pencil bags on desks. No one ever saved a desk for me, so I usually ended up in the front row, or worse, on the boy’s side of the classroom. At this school, while it was co-ed, boys and girls did not associate. In my class of 25, to this day, there are guys I have probably said less than five words to.

I remember one teacher explicitly telling us that men and women could never be friends with each other. Her theory was men were only friends with women because they wanted to sleep with them. The school strictly forbid dating under threat of expulsion. We’d heard the horror stories about students who had dared to have a secret relationship. With this guideline strictly in place, I for one wasn’t willing to risk so much as a proper conversation with a boy.

I remember one teacher explicitly telling us that men and women could never be friends with each other. Her theory was men were only friends with women because they wanted to sleep with them.

The high school hierarchy depended heavily on whether you attended the church associated with the school, how much your family donated to that church, and whether your father was in church leadership.

But part of my struggle connecting with my classmates was simply logistics. I lived approximately 70 miles (112 kilometres) from where I went to high school. In order to cut down on commute time (it took one hour and twenty minutes to drive to school), my dad would fly us in our Cessna 172 to classes. I took ground school at the local university and learned to fly with my dad at 14. The distance, unfortunately, made extracurricular activities hard, and I couldn’t as easily in my first years of high school attend casual get-togethers.

My family and I next the plane we used to commute to school.

Even as a teenager, I was keenly aware of my parents’ sacrifices so I could go to this school. My mom, in particular, had bought heavily into the propaganda about a ‘Classical Christian education’ and the value of studying things like Latin. I wanted to make the time, the money and the long, unconventional commute worth it for my parents, and similarly to my mother, I believed in our education. So I poured myself into my studies and was rewarded with solid grades for my efforts.

I signed up for Mock Trial in my sophomore year, and my little sister did track and cross country. She has always been a talented runner and as someone who struggled with learning challenges running was one area where she could thrive. She was relentlessly bullied in class, but on the track, she was the best.

These extracurricular activities meant we started to spend more time at the school. I took driver’s ed and got my license at the beginning of my junior year. I learned that by the time I’d driven home, I was often too tired for homework, particularly in the winter or when the weather was bad, and we couldn’t fly. So I started doing my homework immediately after school.

My last two periods of the day were Rhetoric followed by Church Doctrine, both taught by one of the longest serving teachers, my abuser. Doctrine class was only three days a week, leaving a free period and an empty classroom the other two days. I found I could simply finish my homework right there in that classroom as I waited for my sisters to finish their classes.

I could have studied in the auditorium, but there were usually other students chatting; the elementary school would practice productions they’d later put on for their parents or grandparents; and of course, the bell would ring, and the area would suddenly turn to chaos as classroom doors burst open and children were freed from their studies. With a long drive ahead and college applications looming, I could not afford distractions.

I feel as if I need to justify my choice to study in my soon-to-be abusers’ classroom, as I was later criticised for the choice. I still remember the wife of the pastor who started the school, implying I’d asked for it by studying alone in a classroom with a male teacher. She’d asked me why I hadn’t chosen a classroom with a female teacher.

I feel as if I need to justify my choice to study in my soon-to-be abusers’ classroom, as I was later criticised for the choice. I still remember the wife of the pastor who started the school, implying I’d asked for it by studying alone in a classroom with a male teacher.

I cannot tell you how much I wish I had simply chosen a different classroom, gone to a coffee shop, or done anything other than studying alone with a predator. All I can say is: I should have been safe.

One thing regularly drilled into the girls at my school was their responsibility to ‘stop their Christian brothers from stumbling and falling into sexual sin.’ We were taught we had some incomprehensible power over men, which we could manipulate simply by how we dressed. If our skirts were half an inch too short, or if we forgot to wear our frumpy sweater vests, we could cause the boys and men to look at us lustfully. This was the extent of our sex education.

I believed what I was taught. Only now do I understand those teachings for what they truly were, a way of sexualising little girls and shaming women.

I believed what I was taught. Only now do I understand those teachings for what they truly were, a way of sexualising little girls and shaming women.

When I was probably 15, I spent the night at a friend’s house. A couple of days later, at school, my friend approached me with a message from their father. I wasn’t allowed to stay over again unless I wore more modest PJs as mine were ‘distracting’. To this day, I still remember the PJs I had worn, a pair of shorts covered in smiley faces, which I loved, and a green tank top.

I fully believed I had done something terribly wrong, just as I would later believe everything that happened with my abuser was my fault.

(Now is where writing this gets hard.)

My abuser was an elder at the church. He was my Church Doctrine teacher. I viewed him as both a spiritual and earthly authority.

I asked him as many questions about God as I asked him about school (though at this school, those two things were so intermingled every class had a religious element). I respected him and viewed him as a man of God, as did the rest of the community.

At some point, he started giving me side hugs. Side hugs were the church and community-approved way men hugged women. (My teenage self would be shocked that I now regularly greet both men and women with a hug and a kiss on the cheek… and there is nothing sexual about it).

Physical touch from older Christian men also wasn’t something that struck me as particularly odd or surprising. Since I started at the school, the superintendent would regularly approach his favourite girls from behind and rub their shoulders. He would give us side hugs and run his hand up and down our waists. I saw him do it to others, and so I thought it was normal when he did the same to me. I was one of the favoured few. I assumed he liked me because I was at the top of my class and never got in trouble.

Physical touch from older Christian men also wasn’t something that struck me as particularly odd or surprising. Since I started at the school, the superintendent would regularly approach his favourite girls from behind and rub their shoulders. He would give us side hugs and run his hand up and down our waists.

In a way, he spent two years grooming me and preparing me for my abuser. It wasn’t until years later when others started to tell their stories, that I remembered always being on high alert for the superintendent coming my way during lunch.

My abuser went through the same process of getting me used to his touch while I studied in his classroom. He would reach over and brush my hand as he walked passed to leave the room. He put his hand on my back. Finally, he had his hugs.

We’d occasionally chat about things that interested me: horses, science and God. My sisters would come into the classroom and goof off. They viewed him as a fun, cool teacher. Sometimes he’d even let us use his first name.

He gave me a full frontal hug the day before Christmas break, my junior year. He crushed me against himself, and I remember feeling small and uncomfortable. My chin was stuck at an awkward angle, and it felt like ages until he let me go telling me that he would miss me over the break.

The next semester continued on the same trajectory, but he gave me a long hug every Friday. I got used to the hugs and even enjoyed the ‘fatherly’ affection. Then, one day when the weather was poor, he asked me to let him know I had gotten home safely, and soon we were regularly messaging over Facebook.

Once when he was hugging me, his hand wandered down and cupped my butt. I didn’t know what to do, so I just went to my locker and stared into it, catatonic for a long time. I’d convinced myself to that point that he viewed me like he did his daughters. I decided to ignore the issue and pretend nothing had happened.

Once when he was hugging me, his hand wandered down and cupped my butt… I decided to ignore the issue and pretend nothing had happened.

Not long after that, I was sitting on the floor by his desk with the classroom door closed. My abuser had commented on my nylons and made an excuse to touch my legs when the pastor (his other titles included Founder of the school and the Chairman of the school board) walked in. I jumped up, and my abuser awkwardly introduced us.

At my school, the pastor was highly revered, and I felt special having gotten to meet him. However, my abuser later messaged me to chastise me for making him look bad in front of his pastor. He told me that the way I was sitting on the floor gave the ‘appearance of sin’. I was confused and startled by the rebuke, having convinced myself that everything was normal and that we were just friends. After all, my abuser always said I seemed mature for my age.

This was me during my junior year of high school. The photo was taken by my abuser and later sent to me during on of our Messenger exchanges.

I finished the year full of optimism. I was the only student that year to win the Faculty Award, recognising me as a top student. At the superintendent’s request, I’d also tried out for the school musical, which would show the following year, and had gotten a spot despite my complete lack of any musical talent.

In the meantime, I helped my parents on the farm by driving truck. As a result, I spent a lot of time waiting as my mom, who drove combine, filled the trailers with grain. In the downtime, I had long conversations over Facebook Messenger with my abuser. Still certain everything was above board, I cheerfully told my parents and sisters all about it. Knowing my abuser, they also thought everything was fine and appreciated that I had a spiritual mentor.

My abuser requested to meet me for coffee, and we discussed the next school year and everything I was looking forward to. He was teaching Calculus and Physics, both of which I was planning on taking. The conversation was cut short when his youngest daughter, who was a few years older than me, arrived.

Between my play practice and my sister’s cross country practice, I came to town quite a few times that August. Every time my abuser requested to meet up with me, and it was that month that I turned 18.

I’d never had formal sex education beyond abstinence training which perpetuated the ideas that:

• A girl’s worth is connected to her virginity.
• Boys only want sex.
• If you get horizontal next to a member of the opposite sex or show your belly button, you are asking for it.

My mother had heavily pushed the idea of not only waiting to have sex until marriage but also waiting to have your first kiss until you stood at the altar. My cousin had allegedly succeeded in this feat, and my mother regularly mentioned how romantic her wedding was.

Because I believed everything purity culture taught me, I knew basically nothing about sex. I hadn’t even googled my questions about my body, fearing that I would stumble on porn and instantly damn myself to hell. I learned about periods by reading the Diary of Anne Frank.

Because I believed everything purity culture taught me, I knew basically nothing about sex. I hadn’t even googled my questions about my body, fearing that I would stumble on porn and instantly damn myself to hell. I learned about periods by reading the Diary of Anne Frank.

It wasn’t until my first year at university that I asked, ‘what’s a vagina?’ and shut down a dorm party faster than if the campus police had arrived. One of the girls got a whiteboard and walked me through my anatomy right then and there. I learned about masturbation and condoms in a similarly awkward fashion.

Purity culture had given my abuser a perfectly naïve teen that he could take advantage of without legal ramifications, and so things began to escalate quickly. He liked to meet me at the arboretum. He’d pick some secluded spot where he could ‘hug me’, feeling my breasts and butt. Before long, his hands were under my clothes.

I remember random details of these moments but forget many of the most relevant aspects of the encounters. For example, once there was a squirrel playing in what I think was an aspen tree and the light danced on the leaves as they jostled. There was someone mowing the lawns. I could hear them doing laps, but I couldn’t see them or they, us. My abuser was afraid the person would spot us and so made me lay on the ground. I think he might have laid on top of me. I can’t fully remember. I just watched that happy little squirrel in the branches above my head.

For some reason, when he touched me, my face went numb. My face would feel as if it was contorting, my lips would shake, my teeth would keep clunking unintentionally, and I always felt dizzy.

I’d never been taught about what actually happened when people had sex. We were only taught how to avoid sex. If this is what your body did when it was ‘turned on’, I didn’t like it.

I was also self-conscious. What would my abuser think if he saw my trembling lips? He didn’t say anything.

I don’t know how many times we met up. I do know that my abuser sweated a lot, and I was always afraid his sweat would drip on me. I know that day after I met with my abuser, my whole body would be sore from the prolonged clenching of my muscles. I guessed that must be a normal reaction. I remember being so tired that I couldn’t wait to die and just sleep forever.

One of the highlights of senior year was the physics trip. The entire physics class got to go to Seattle for a few days and tour Boeing, the space needle and a place that cut metal with water. My abuser, as the physics teacher, was in charge of the trip. He also took charge of my outfits. He dictated every piece of clothing I wore and had me first try it on and send him pictures. He liked my white shorts and a slightly translucent yellow top.

This is me on a field trip for science class. I believe this was my sophomore year.

During the trip, he told me that I couldn’t be alone with him as it would give people the wrong impression. But then it seemed that at every turn, he singled me out. Once, he went so far as to call me away from walking through the aquarium with my friends to be with him. I felt that no matter what I did, I was doing something wrong. I was anxious and isolated from the other students throughout the trip, but I also liked that I was the teacher’s pet and was given responsibilities like navigating.

My mother had joined the trip as a chaperone because she had become concerned about my abuser’s behaviour, but she got the flu, so hadn’t seen what was happening.

My abuser again lectured me on the way home in the car, telling me I needed to be more cautious as I would get myself in trouble with the school and could jeopardise his marriage. I was still trying to convince myself that everything was normal.

After the trip, one of the school secretaries, who had also gone on the trip as a chaperone, went to the school to raise concerns about the way my abuser was interacting with me. Her concerns were evidently ignored as the school’s only action was to tell my abuser that as a Christian leader, he needed to present himself better and not put himself in a position where others could interpret his actions as ‘sin’.

I learned about the complaint through my abuser. My parents were never told, and no one spoke to me.

For a long time, I was angry at the school secretary for saying something because that was the point where my life went from hard to unbearable. Sadly, she was the only person at the school who tried to protect me. This was the point where I could no longer get away with blocking out incidents and deceiving myself into thinking everything was okay and normal. I went from denial to self-condemnation. I believed something was wrong with me and that I had somehow caused my abuser to sin. I felt responsible.

This was the point where I could no longer get away with blocking out incidents and deceiving myself into thinking everything was okay and normal. I went from denial to self-condemnation. I believed something was wrong with me and that I had somehow caused my abuser to sin. I felt responsible.

I was harbouring a horrible secret about myself, and the only person who knew how evil I was was my abuser. He knew about my sexual sin, and yet he still told me he loved me. I became convinced that I was unlovable and that because my abuser had sinned with me, he was the only person that could love me. I was afraid that without him, I would be completely alone.

With the school now aware of my abuser’s ‘inappropriate way of relating to me’, the level of secrecy instantly in our relationship increased, as did the way my abuser shamed me and made me feel guilty for what was happening.

He regularly demanded photos of me. But until then, I had gotten away with sending clothed photos. No more.

I remember one time meeting him in his classroom, and he pinned me in the corner between the bookshelf and the wall. He took my shirt off and my bra. He then unbuckled my pants and put his fingers inside me.

I was frozen. After some time (I don’t know how long), he abruptly stopped, told me to get dressed and went to the bathroom for a while. My hands were shaking so severely that it took me minutes to clasp my bra. He came back, sat me down at one of the desks, stood over me, and lectured me on defiling myself for my future husband. He told me I needed to repent. I remember him asking me, “Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to be pure for your husband?” I cried and apologised, saying that I did want to be pure. He forgave me for leading him into sin and hugged me.

He came back, sat me down at one of the desks, stood over me, and lectured me on defiling myself for my future husband. He told me I needed to repent. I remember him asking me, “Don’t you want that? Don’t you want to be pure for your husband?” I cried and apologised, saying that I did want to be pure.

I felt exhausted and dirty. I went home and showered with pure hot water, believing I deserved the pain. I thought that burning my skin would somehow cleanse me.

I stopped eating. I was in charge of packing my sisters’ lunches, so I would simply make lunches for them and leave just an apple or maybe a yoghurt for myself. Part of me hoped someone would notice and ask if I was okay.

Close to Christmas, I left my phone unattended on my desk at home, and my abuser messaged. My mother saw the message and wrote me a letter telling me I needed to cease contact with him immediately.

I foolishly messaged my abuser to let him know my mother had found out. He interrogated me about what she had seen, what she knew, and what I had told her. He then told me to delete all our conversations, not to text him again, and avoid sharing anything else about our relationship. He said I would ruin his marriage and that I might get expelled for it. I did as I was told.

The next day my abuser didn’t so much as look at me. Unbeknownst to me, he had gone to the school superintendent and ‘repented’ for ‘inappropriately texting me’.

Shortly after that, the superintendent arranged a meeting with me and my parents in his office. The last thing I wanted my parents to know about was the extent of my relationship with my abuser. I felt so small.

The superintendent asked who had started the text exchange. I said I didn’t know. He said that my abuser had told him I had. I agreed, thinking that yes, it must have been me. My abuser had told me to message him and tell him if I had gotten home safely. At that point, I knew I was in trouble. If I’d started it, it must have meant it was my fault. He asked if I still had the messages. I said they were deleted. I was relieved that no one would read those messages or see the photos my abuser had asked me to send.

He then asked me one more question, ‘did he kiss you?’ That was one thing my abuser had not done. I answered honestly. Apparently, my abuser had been adamant that he hadn’t even kissed me. The superintendent was reassured that my abuser had told the truth.

I waited for the rest of the questions to come: “Did he touch you? Where did he touch you?” How did he touch you? Did he take your clothes off?” They never did.

I waited for the rest of the questions to come: “Did he touch you? Where did he touch you?” How did he touch you? Did he take your clothes off?” They never did.

I asked if I was expelled. I was told I wasn’t but that I couldn’t take Calculus or Physics anymore. He told me I was lucky that my abuser was repentant and that things could have gotten messy. He concluded the conversation by telling me that if anyone asked what had happened, I was to lie.

I went home, and my parents didn’t say anything about it. Shortly thereafter, they had a conversation with the pastor. He informed them that my abuser would resign. He assured them that nothing illegal had occurred, reporting that they had stopped the situation before anything bad had happened.

My parents took me to an Applebees and told me the news. Never before had I caused so much trouble at school. I felt so guilty for my abuser losing his job.

A letter went out to all the families in the school announcing the change. No adult talked to me about what happened ever again. The matter had been dealt with because my abuser had ‘confessed, was forgiven, and is in full fellowship with all of us.’ The parents were told to pray for my abuser and his family; I was ignored. He was in fellowship; I was alone. He was to be thanked; I was rejected.

The letter by the school superintendent to the parents announcing my abuser’s resignation.

My parents told me that when my abuser confessed, he had said he was flattered by my attention and let that cloud his judgment. The authorities at the school bought the story that I was merely a foolish teenage girl who’d become infatuated with my teacher.

I do distinctly remember having a crush at the time, and I can assure you it was not for the overweight, balding, 53-year-old teacher. There was this cute blonde boy who had a Justin Bieber haircut and bright blue eyes. Once my abuser had caught me chatting with him in the hall as we were both in Mock Trial. My abuser was angry and jealous that I seemed so animated with a boy my own age in a way I never was with him. Through out my time under my abuser’s control, he guarded who I talked to and shut down friendships with the opposite sex before they had a chance to begin.

At that point, I notched my anorexia up to the next level. I fantasised about just wasting away completely. I didn’t want to die, but I felt like if no one noticed I was starving myself to death, it would mean I deserved it. I liked how my hip bones stuck out, and my chest got a washboard effect. One girl said she thought it was creepy. My mom did once ask if I was losing weight on purpose. I said, ‘no’, and no adult mentioned it again.

I desperately wanted someone, anyone, to ask if I was okay. I wanted to talk to someone about what had happened. But no one was there for me to talk to or confide in.

I desperately wanted someone, anyone, to ask if I was okay. I wanted to talk to someone about what had happened. But no one was there for me to talk to or confide in.

For the majority of the last semester of my senior year, no one talked to me about my abuser. My classmates suspected it had to do with me and to cover my shame, I spent more time with my sisters’ oblivious peers. One girl mentioned that she was disappointed she would never have my abuser as a teacher. I was overwhelmed with guilt.

Ironically, the pastor defends his and the school’s lack of action by saying my abuser and I were, ‘covering up what we had done’. It is as if he assumes I was somehow an equal participant and equally guilty. What happened at that school was covered up, but not by me.

Ironically, the pastor defends his and the school’s lack of action by saying my abuser and I were, ‘covering up what we had done’. It is as if he assumes I was somehow an equal participant and equally guilty. What happened at that school was covered up, but not by me.

I felt as if everyone was talking about me, but no one would speak to me. I was turning invisible.

Eventually, I started to receive college acceptances. As the letters came in the mail, I began to think about my future. I would go far away. No one would know what I had done, and my abuser would no longer be in my life.
I started to eat again and, by the end of the year, weighed nearly 120lbs (I’m 5'7"). Two of my friends got up the courage to talk to me about what had happened, and I thought I might just be okay.

This was me at my high school graduation.

I was so ready to graduate and finally be free of it all. But when I sat up on stage wearing my gown, I looked out into the crowd, and there was my abuser. He messaged me later that day.

Looking back, I wonder how different my story would have been if the person in charge at my school, the superintendent, had done something to protect me instead of also feeling up teenage girls; if the pastor had reported the incident to the police; if I hadn’t been told to lie when anyone asked me what happened; if one of the female teachers at the school had taken me under her wing and asked if I was okay when I so clearly wasn’t; if my parents had been more present and if I hadn’t let my abuser put such a wedge in my relationship with them, how different my life could have been.

It could have all ended then. The man who groomed and molested me could have faced true justice and been forced to stop. I could have gone to university and dealt with the normal struggles young people face instead of holding on to shame. I could have gotten real help from a trained professional.

This is, unfortunately, only part one of the story. You can read part 2 here.

E.D. Paige now lives happily ‘in sin’ with her partner. Since leaving Christianity many of her PTSD symptoms have subsided and she no longer struggles with thoughts of suicide. Follow her on Medium at @ed.paige for more articles about her thoughts and experiences in religion.