A Facebook friend recently asked an intriguing question: “Why do people seem just as obsessed with the church (if not more) after they’ve left the church than while they were in it.” I’ve often heard other people pose a similar question: “Why can people leave the church, but they can’t leave it alone?”  This friend compared our departure from the church to his pet cockatiel: “When we let him fly free, sometimes he just stands there in his cage, and it breaks my heart.” The image of a timid bird, paralyzed by fear, with his cage wide open was very thought provoking for me, and actually stirred up quite a few emotions. I am glad that he asked the question, and that I have had a chance to reflect on it this week.

Of course, like everything else on this blog, I am only truly speaking for myself. But since this is more of a general question, I am also going to try to answer it in a more general way. While I can’t speak for everyone, and I think our reasons for holding on or letting go are as individual as we are ourselves, I will share a few insights.

First of all, I really don’t believe that most people fit into the category of people who obsess over the church after they leave. In the past year, I’ve made quite a few friends who have also left the church. Of those friends, I honestly can’t think of any that obsess over it. I am not saying it doesn’t exist; I just believe it is a small minority. My sister, Beth, is a great example. She explained to me that she would prefer to just sneak out the back of the chapel and never talk about church again. She has been pretty successful at that. I’ve never seen her make a negative comment about the church on Facebook, or complain about it to anyone outside of our close circle of friends. She has a somewhat reserved personality, keeps her private life very private, and prefers to work through things on her own. Although still painful, her healing has been a very personal process.

After JT’s initial struggle with leaving the church, his experience was somewhat like my sister’s. He was definitely angry at first, and talked to a select few people about his frustrations, hurt, and betrayal. But now that he has gone through that process, he rarely discusses it. He has always had other aspects of his life that have been fulfilling. His career, his hobbies, and his friends are a great source of strength for him. And for years, many of his friends have been outside of the church, like classmates, colleagues, and teammates. I think it has helped tremendously in his transition to have such meaningful relationships and pursuits that have not been connected to the church.

I, on the other hand, am completely different from my sister and my husband. I process everything out loud. (I think that is why I was always in trouble for talking too much in school— okay, that and maybe talking about boys and stuff.) I’ve always loved to hash things out, ask other’s opinions, get new perspective, and share my insights. Often, I don’t feel like something is real until I have shared it. In the church, I found that bearing my testimony felt like a wonderful release of things that were important to me that needed to be shared, and the desire to testify didn’t necessarily stop when I left the church.  Since I returned home from my mission, the church has been my life. I loved being Mormon. When I left work full-time to stay home with my kids, I lost most of my connection to the world outside of Mormonism. I found my closest friends at church, and we did everything together. We served together in callings, wrote Mormon Mommy blogs, had play dates, attended church activities, and made a deep connection through our shared beliefs. I also found the most fulfillment (outside of my family) in the opportunities I had to speak and teach and share my talents at church. It was true that most of my happiness seemed to come from the church.

When I found myself in a faith crisis that lasted a few years, it wasn’t an option for me to sneak out the back of the chapel quietly. (I mean, really, when have you seen me do anything quietly? Let alone sneak out of somewhere. Ask JT—he has to drag me out of any social setting, kicking and screaming.)  I knew I needed to talk to people, ask questions, listen, and eventually find my way. But when I finally found my way, which ended up leading me out, I felt completely lost.

I have never felt more alone and isolated in my whole life as I did deciding to leave the church. Yes, I had JT, and I am grateful for that. It can be hard on a marriage to have one partner leave and the other stay.  But JT couldn’t relate to the void I felt. I had nothing else. New to the Las Vegas area, I didn’t have many friends, and the few I had were LDS. I didn’t know how to connect with them or relate to them anymore. I couldn’t join the conversations about Primary lessons or ward temple night, and I didn’t want to.  I also didn’t want to start a conversation about the things that led me out of the church. Those conversations get really awkward really quick, you know, like my blog. I didn’t have a fulfilling career outside of motherhood, or even hobbies that I knew how to transfer to non-Mormon life. I was like the pet cockatiel, so excited that the cage was finally open, but not remembering how to fly. I didn’t just lose a place to go on Sundays—it felt like I lost everything I had ever known.

That’s when I realized I was entering the grief process. The process people go through when they lose someone or something very special to them.

These are the 5 stages of Grief or Loss

1. Denial and isolation
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

The stages don’t always move in order, and I think it is possible to go through some of them simultaneously. Not everyone experiences them the same way, although I think everyone who leaves the church does experience them.  I spent a year drifting back and forth between isolation, depression, and anger. They would come and go unexpectedly. Some mornings I would wake up shocked to feel anger about the church. I would practice gratitude, go to the gym, look for distractions, but the anger still lingered. I was impacted the most by depression and isolation.  I tried to reach out and talk to loved ones, but inevitably it made them uncomfortable. (Remember, most of my loved ones were still active in the church, and hearing my grapples and frustrations with the church they still loved was very difficult for some of them.) Every time I tried to write about it, the anger side would manifest. There was no escaping it for me.

That is when I first heard someone accuse ex-LDS people of “not being able to leave the church alone.” I felt an immense sense of shame. I hated that I couldn’t just move on. I desperately wanted to. Hearing those accusations also reignited my feelings of isolation. Here I was, absolutely lost and alone, but I was being told that I shouldn’t talk about it. I should just leave it alone. But how could I? What about the years I dedicated to the church? My mission? My tithing? What about the betrayal I felt as I found hidden stories and facts that I had never been taught? What about the damage and pain I felt from the attempts at conformity? What about the confusion I had over determining a new way of life, when every choice I had ever made somehow related back to the teachings in Mormonism? Like putting on a tank top for the first time in 14 years (besides my gym clothes) and the immediate feeling of shame and embarrassment that my in-laws would see my shoulders? Or the knee jerk response of deferring to priesthood authority? What about the mean and horrible things members of the church said to me, and about me behind my back, for leaving the church? Was I not allowed the chance to defend myself, share my new testimony, or have any voice?

As I struggled to figure out how to not be one of “those” people who “can’t leave the church alone” I realized that the church was not leaving me alone. I received invasive texts and messages from friends, demanding to know my feelings about the church. And often chastising me for my beliefs. Visits from the missionaries, determined that they knew the answers to my questions and ways to resolve my concerns. Attempts from family and friends to continue to preach to me their beliefs, with expectations for me to maintain their standards, as if the understanding that things were “done out of love” justified the excessive hurt it caused. Even talks from the apostles and general authorities that belittled my pain calling it a “paddy-cake, taffy-pulled experience”, or labeling those of us who leave as lazy, or without conviction. The church I loved and the apostles I had once believed in were dismissive of my pain and judgmental of my choices.

So, when my friend asked this question on my Facebook page, many of these feelings returned. I have spent the last few days sorting through this array of emotions, asking myself why I became so defensive, hurt, and upset. To me, it feels similar to victim blaming. We see it all the time with abuse victims—that it is somehow their fault, their making, their problem. Maybe the victim shouldn’t have been in that dark alley at night, or worn a tight skirt, or trusted a family member. Maybe the abuser is really a good person most of the time, and it was just a small mistake, so they should be forgiven and forgotten. Maybe the victims are just exaggerating their pain, and should move on. These are examples of sickening attempts to silence the voice of the one who is already suffering. It justifies the abuser, it belittles the pain, and it leaves the person with added sorrow and shame.  I wouldn’t expect a victim of abuse to keep quiet, and just move on. Just as I can’t assign someone an amount of time that is acceptable to grieve the loss of a loved one. It may take months, years, even a life time to heal.

I would ask the same compassion be shown to those of us that mourn the loss of our religion.  Those of us that might feel betrayed, confused, sad, regretful, angry, and alone. But I believe that through compassion, acceptance, understanding, and love, we will find our way through to the other side. We will find our wings, and the courage to fly out of the cage.

For me, this blog is my first set of non-Mormon wings. It is the way that I process this experience. I waited until now to begin this blog because I wanted to be in a healthier place than I was a year or two ago. I didn’t want it to be burdened with anger or the feelings of despair. Of course, those feelings resurface, and may find their way into my posts. That is what makes me human, and I don’t want to hide that side of me. I want to help others out of the isolation they have felt, show them they are not alone, whether from leaving the church or any other life experience that may relate. This is not persuasive writing with the intent to de-convert anyone. It is not about showing the hidden secrets of the church, spewing hatred, or creating doubt. It is simply a place to connect with my emotions, and allow others to share in my experience. I have never viewed it as a way to obsess over the church. In fact, that is why I have chosen to only post once a week. I don’t want this to take over my life and retrench me in the pain. And although I am somewhat consistent at posting, it is in no way the most important thing that I do, or my greatest passion, or my only legacy.  It is just a piece in the complex puzzle called Kate. I don’t know when it will end. I don’t have a deadline or time frame, and I don’t need one. As long as I feel there is something to say I will stay right here in the middle of my narrative, enjoying my new wings.