This is my story. I do not purport to be a hero nor villain, although I have acted as both. I wish that I could look back at all my decisions proudly and not be ashamed, but alas, I am a flawed individual. As painful as it is I will try and give an accurate account. Life was, well, perfect. We had just bought our first home and were expecting our second child when my DH announced that he didn’t believe the church was true anymore. My jaw dropped. My heart clenched. The world froze. How could it be that my best friend could have lost his testimony? We had both been born in the covenant, life-long members. But suddenly, my years of Sunday School kicked in as I bore my testimony as to why it was true and why President Monson was a prophet. You may or may not be surprised to hear that it did nothing to sway him. The first couple of years were a rough us. My DH sought a confidant, I sought distance. A few times we were able to sit down and discuss issues, neither coming out the victor. If I failed to present my case I blamed my deficiency in words. My DH continued attending church with periods of silence bringing hope to me that he had overcome the trial. But alas, as the year progressed instead of feeling uplifted from church my DH would point out a contradiction or fallacy in the gospel doctrine, as we drove home. I’d get upset and shut down. At one point during that summer, after my DH commented on some fallacy, I had had it. If God was there he could defend himself. I was angry. Angry at my DH for ruining my perfect life. Angry at God for not caring and angry at myself for not being smart enough to rebuttal all my DH’s doubts. A few months, after our second child was born, I lost my faith. But I wasn’t ready to—I was angry, sad, depressed. Until I made a decision, I chose not to fight and I chose to doubt my doubts and believe, after all, if you read enough literature by the church believing is simply a choice. So, I decided simply not to give any heed to what my DH was saying. (Oops, broken Temple Covenant right there). But I had my family, my DH’s family, and the ward all on my side, so I had to be in the right. Our life continued, now with two kids. Our marriage was for the most part amicable, besides the DMZ I had created around any religious discussion. I believe most of my readers will empathize with my husband, as I’m sure most of you have left the church. My DH continued attending church with us, being a good father and husband, but for obvious reasons he was withdrawn, as I pushed him ever further away. I had created a new norm I could live with. My DH was suffering in silence. Each summer I packed up my kids and traveled home to visit my parents and family. As that summer trip was ending and time to head home neared, my DH messaged me saying he wanted to take the kids to a different church every other week, one where the teachings were more aligned with his beliefs. For most this would seem a reasonable compromise. But I blew my top—which meant I completely shut down and became anxious that my kids would grow up heathens. Once more my solution was to deny battle. When I got home my DH and I never spoke of it. On Sunday, I packed up the kids and took them to church. Our new norm: I took the kids each Sunday to church by myself. Was it sad, yes. But don’t feel sorry for me; in the ward I was a hero, defying Satan and doing the right thing. (It’s all right for you to curse me). Now I realize my DH was the hero, the peacemaker, doing his part to make me happy, as I pushed him and his feelings away. In my hypocrisy, whenever I saw evidence of him reaching out to the exmormon community online, I got angry and frustrated. The turning point for our marriage—not my journey, not yet—was when our second born was two, we began a new hobby. We became Civil War re-enactors just in time to join our new unit at the 155th Anniversary of Gettysburg. Events happened a handful of times a year, but one of my re-enacting friends commented on how fortunate I was that my DH would participate fully with me. He would watch the kids on Sunday, so I could galvanize as a soldier and battle. A few things happened during this time. First, I fell back in love with my DH, realizing he hadn’t changed. He was the same good person I had first fallen for, if not better, after all, leaving the church had turned him into a full-fledged feminist. The second thing, is that on Sundays at our re-enactments, our chaplain would give a non-denominational Christian sermon in camp. He usually read from either the NIV or ASE Bible—I was amazed to hear the verses sound so clear and meaningful, instead of in archaic, convoluted wording. Then he would pray in English without the pretense of Mormon prayers. I, of course, thought these Sundays were great, because my DH was coming to a church. The third thing that happened, is a friend recognized some tendencies in me that were consistent with someone coming from an alcoholic home, including OCD and the need to control others through manipulation. I began going to a 12 Step Program. At first, I thought the addict in my life was my DH, but then I came to the realization that my behavior was prevalent in my own family. After that, I assumed my bulimic grandmother must be the source of addictive behavior and “sick” mental thinking. Whatever the cause, I learned to let go, live and let live, and I stopped trying to manipulate my DH. In 2013, four years after my DH had left, a shelf item happened for me, I refused to attend another General Women’s Conference as long as the Q15 decided that grown women were on the same teaching level as 8-year-old girls. I had hated the General YW meeting as a teenager because those women had the fakest smiles and an immature why of speaking.
Two more years passed, we continued to re-enact and our marriage became better than ever. We still didn’t discuss church history, but we were able to talk of philosophy and politics—an improvement. My DH supported me and I supported him. I was the one to go out and buy him regular underwear. I bought him hard cider and allowed him to be himself in front of me. I agreed to skip church occasionally to spend time with him. I was no longer a “Nazis Mormon,” but I still was a TBM. My DH had been out now for five years, but things were going well enough that we decided to have another baby. Shortly after becoming pregnant, I was soon called to help plan a Women’s Conference for the stake. When the committee was discussing possible speakers, one lady mentioned a man’s name, which I shot down saying that this was a women’s conference and that you didn’t see men asking women to speak at their hoedowns. Most of the women seemed to agree with me, but somehow, we still ended up with a male teacher for one of the lessons. Now I’m a woman, so obviously one of my major shelf issues my entire life was the sexism in the church. Polygamy sucked. YWs was a sham—my self-esteem as a female in the church lacked much to be desired. RS wasn’t much better. But I was living in a ward now with feminists and I figured we were heading in a progressive direction. (Stop laughing). When you go to RS and have brilliant sisters talking about how great we are, it can push those obvious inequalities to the corner…for a moment. For the most part, I thought the conference had turned out all right, besides being annoyed that the man leader had to come, but whatever, we had cokes in our break room—yes, one woman fainted when she found that out. Our third child was born, I continued active in the church, but I was no longer consumed by fear, in fact, I felt full of love. I thought this was what the church was all about, teaching us how to love. Then October 2015 hit. Three white dudes from Utah were called to the Q15. I’m from Utah, and hate the church in Utah—cliquish and self-righteous. I actually, did not watch the rest of conference, because I was so pissed. My entire working theory at that time was that the gospel just needed to free itself from the Utah Mormon Culture. Then as to rub salt into the wound, the new LGBT policy was leaked. My shelf had a huge crack in it by this time. The thing that made me take off my Gs was the discovery of BYU’s policy to persecute sexual assault victims. I hadn’t discussed any of this with my DH, so you can imagine his surprise when he slipped into bed next to me and I was wearing a cute little tank top number. I actually kept attending church for another year—I taught Relief Society once a month, using talks given by women for women, instead of using the old farts’ manual. I was eventually released, probably because after Mormons helped elect Trump, I refused to wear a skirt or dress to church. Yes, I did wear suit pants to church and teach RS. My DH had hoped that his journey and mine would be together. For a while, it wasn’t. I wish I had been there for him, but looking back, I realize I was sick mentally, manipulative and bitchy. Now I will face from my family what I put him through. I write this to give those of you who are leaving the church but are married to a TBM hope. Their journey is different, just remember love is the greatest gift you can give. My DH gave me a soft place to land, his love and willingness to forgive me keeps me going and gives me the courage to face the wrath of my family and friends, as it is bound to come.