Freedom from Guilt

I was raised in Salt Lake City. I spent every Sunday in a chapel pew and as a teenager I added Wednesday nights to my weekly religious routine. My family was LDS, my friends were LDS, even my teachers were LDS. The only people I knew who weren't was my dad, but my brothers and I had been conditioned to believe that while we loved our dad, he would probably end up in hell if he didn't find Jesus before his death.

I don't resent my upbringing. The Church gave me a support system and a moral starting point. And yet, in hindsight, I realize the bad things too.

When I was seventeen I enlisted in the National Guard after somehow convincing my parents to sign their permission. I spent the six months leading up to my ship date listening to the same questions on repeat. How would I ever get married now? How would I have children? My male cousin enlisted at the same time, never once did anybody express the same concerns for him.

I brushed the questions off. I figured they had never met a woman in the military and they would get used to the idea eventually. When I arrived at Basic Training in South Carolina I was the farthest away from home that I had ever been. Cigarette smoke made me nauseous, swear words made me flinch, and my mother was still controlling how much juice I could drink.

To make it worse, we were assigned a "battle buddy" and if we were ever caught without them next to us, we would be punished. I hated my battle. She was a bitch, always running behind, and had a tattoo... a clear mark of the devil, obviously. To make it worse, I hadn't yet realized that I had social anxiety, and having someone follow me around all day was torture.

I was going to church every Sunday, but after a month of training, I went to get dressed and realized that the Book of Mormon in my locker had yet to be open. I was attending out of habit and an obligation to my family. If I was getting anything out of it, it was that the missionaries could call home for me and tell my parents if I needed anything.

My mindset changed as I started to rely on support for my battle buddy and platoon. My battle and I became friends. I started asking the people in my platoon about their lives and their religions. I met people from different faiths, backgrounds, and races. They were all so happy to share with me, and my curiosity only grew. I started being asked other questions I had never answered before. Did I want to go to college? What would I study? Did I have a career in mind?

Being introduced to knew ideas by people I respected was a turning point for me. For the first time, I realized that while the choice to be a mother was a valid life choice, it wasn't the only acceptable path. I could be anything I wanted. And more importantly, I could have anyone I wanted in my life, not just those who were just like me.

I came home changed. I couldn't stop researching different religions, cultures, and political views. I had formed such a strong friendship with the battle I once hated, and she supported me in my exploration. Her and my dad constantly reassured me that I wasn't a bad person for questioning things I once believed.

I spent a lot more time at my dads house, and before long, I even ordered a coffee *gasp* from the shop near his house. I went to rated R movies on the weekends, hung out in coffee shops and went to galleries downtown on my own.

I got a partial scholarship to a school four hours away and lived in a dorm for a year. I tried beer, tasted cheap vodka, and dated a bit, I even binge watched Sex and the City a couple times. Most importantly, I took a writing class focused on female writers and women in media. It made me realize that I was worth something as a woman even if I didn't fit the mold of women that I had been taught to be.

My wardrobe changed. I no longer felt guilty if someone mentioned my body (in a respectful way) and didn't worry if my shoulders were covered.

And yet, I still felt so ashamed of my life. I knew that most of my family would be disappointed in my choices. I had a panic attack walking into the grocery store once because I felt like a monster for buying milk on a Sunday. I told my mother I went to church every week when I hadn't been for months. When I went home, I felt like I was living a lie and was careful to dress modestly. If family visited me, I purified my dorm, hiding my DVD collection, tank tops and shorts, and packing my coffee maker under the bed.

Guilt was eating me alive and I wondered if the people I loved most would ever accept me.



Then things changed. I had moved back to Salt Lake and was working as a CNA. One day at work I mentioned to a patient that I had always wanted to go to my dad's home town in England and that I hoped to see Paris before I died. The patient took my face between her hands and told me that I needed to do it now, because life would convince me not to. I booked a ticket later that night on a credit card. .

I've heard so many people say that Paris is a tourist trap. Those who enjoy the city fall in love with the food, or fashion, maybe the art. To me it was proof that I would be okay. That I could do anything I set my mind to. It sparked a passion for travel, for history. And when I walked through the doors of Sacre Coeur, I felt a strange stillness come over me. I had felt peace in a temple or church before, but this peace wasn't manufactured by a desire to be like everyone else. This peace came from a new perspective of religion as a whole. Instead of focusing on the teachings, I focused on the commonality between the different beliefs and generations. So many lives had started and ended in those walls. People had felt both heartbreak and found healing under that alter. For the first time, I realized that I didn't have to be at constant war with my past and I didn't have to hate those who hadn't changed with me. Their acceptance of me needed to be their responsibility, not mine.



I still struggle with the guilt sometimes. I still have to remind myself that I am more than a baby making machine. The decision to have children and a husband is valid and should be valued, but my decision not to is too. I am no less of a woman for wanting something different.

I can be a good person without the threat of damnation hanging over my head. I can be happy without the approval of the church, and family doesn't always mean blood.

My transition into adulthood didn't need to be so difficult, but the experience has made me more accepting and willing to change and trust myself, than I would have been without it. Now, I am a resource for those with the same questions I had and try to comfort those still in pain. I will always have scars, but I know they will heal as I find a stronger voice.