Join me on an extraordinary journey as I delve into my personal experiences, beliefs, and reflections. This is Part II of an 8-part series titled “From the Mormon Tabernacle, to the Satanic Temple.” Over the next month, I’ll be exploring my transition from Mormonism to Satanism, my relationship with my family, my struggles and triumphs, and much more. Whether you’re curious, empathetic, or simply looking for a unique perspective, I invite you to follow along and engage in this exploration of faith, identity, and personal growth.
Part II: Growing Up Mormon in Utah
Family Dynamics and Expectations
I was born into a family deeply rooted in the Mormon faith, and our daily routine reflected that commitment. Family prayer was a nightly ritual, and sometimes even a morning one, though like many human endeavors, it would often fall by the wayside as the school year wore on. Family home evenings on Mondays were a staple, filled with The Animated Book of Mormon Stories on VHS, a collection that eventually became the only thing we were allowed to watch on Sundays.
The family computer was always in a common area, placed strategically so that high traffic areas had a clear view of the huge CRT monitor. Sneaking onto the internet became a thrilling challenge, one that involved lock-picking and secret AOL sessions. Those slow downloads of forbidden images are now cherished memories of youthful rebellion.
Our family gatherings were grand affairs, filled with laughter, love, and innocence. Huge extended family reunions, outdoor games on sprawling lawns, and the joy of being one of the oldest cousins marked my early years. But these gatherings were also tinged with anxiety and self-doubt, stemming from an assault I endured as a very young boy. The details are painful and private, but the impact lingered, casting a shadow over what should have been carefree times.
My parents began to face financial struggles early on, and faith played a complex role in our lives. In the Mormon church, paying tithing grants access to church welfare like “The Bishop’s Storehouse,” a lifeline for food insecurity. But it felt conditional, tied to living “righteously.” My mother felt trapped, with no other options but to go through the church.
Early Religious Experiences and Rituals
Growing up, I felt a connection to my faith, a warmth that I was taught was “God’s love.” I wanted to be righteous, to “choose the right.” The stories from the Book of Mormon and the Bible fascinated me Looking back, I see how these tales were framed to shape my beliefs, but they still intrigue me to this day.
One story in particular, one of the first in the Book of Mormon, tells of Nephi’s divine command to kill Laban to obtain the brass plates, which contained the scriptures.
As a child, I was taught that this act was justified because it was a command from God. But as I grew older and began to understand the complexities of morality and law, I realized that this story was more than just a religious lesson. It was a narrative crafted by Joseph Smith to create a precedent that it’s acceptable to disobey the laws of man if God commands it.
It would later make me question the very foundations of my upbringing and the teachings I had accepted without question. This story and many like it from Mormon scripture would become symbolic of the manipulation and control that I felt in my own life, and it fueled my desire to seek truth and exercise my free will beyond the confines of religious doctrine.
I remember huge family reunions, filled with games and activities. Mormons love activities, and there was no shortage of them. Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, and even my Dad’s rock band playing at weddings and gatherings were part of the fabric of my childhood. They would later release a full CD and open for acts like Jefferson Starship before breaking up to focus on their family lives, as happens to many Mormon endeavors (youtube is riddled with them!)
While there were many positive aspects to my childhood, there were also some darker moments, such as my father’s toxic behavior towards my mother and their codependent relationship. This is a topic that I am sure I will discuss in more detail at some point in the future, but it is not entirely relevant to the current discussion.
The Lesson of Free Will
One lesson that resonated with me at a young age was the concept of free will within the Mormon faith. I was taught that God’s gift of free will was something not to be squandered. This idea clicked with me, but not in the way it was intended. The Autistic ADHD in me stopped caring how God wanted it used and focused on using it. Free will became a powerful concept that would later resonate with me in unexpected ways.
Struggles and Triumphs within the Community
My early years were marked by a sense of accomplishment within the Mormon community, especially with the milestone of being baptized at 8. Memorizing the “articles of faith” and receiving the “discussions” for baptism were significant events, though the actual baptism felt strangely unsettling. The white suit, the water, the crowdโit all felt invasive and unsafe, a feeling that was only amplified by the trauma I had already experienced by that age.
Despite these challenges, I found joy in my faith. I felt connected to the stories and teachings, even if some of them now seem questionable. But as I grew older, my family’s struggles began to affect our standing in the community. My early brushes with the law turned me into the “weird/disturbed kid,” and my family felt ostracized.
School and Early Challenges
School was a battleground for me. My third-grade teacher, Mrs. Boothe, was memorable and kind, but I struggled to stay on task. I failed every subject, not because of a lack of understanding but because I couldn’t complete homework or assignments. Tests were a breeze, but the daily grind of schoolwork was insurmountable.
This pattern continued throughout my school years. I was diagnosed with ADHD in 3rd grade, and my struggles began to affect my home life. My parents, unsure how to handle my challenges, resorted to physical punishments. I was thrown into cold showers, threatened with Tabasco sauce, and spanked with a wire flyswatter. Once, I was even thrown through the sheetrock of our basement wall.
These struggles took a toll on my family’s dynamics. My parents’ financial difficulties were exacerbated by court-ordered therapy and medication. The strain on their relationship grew, and my mother began to withdraw from church activities. Our family was never quite the same.
Encounter with Law Enforcement and Incarceration
I’ll never forget the day I was arrested. I was just 8 years old, and the events leading up to it were a blur. A disagreement with some neighborhood kids escalated, and before I knew it, I was holding an axe, feeling threatened and scared. I damaged the inside of our garage in my anger, and when my mom found out, she called the police.
The arresting officer was a red-faced man who seemed to take pleasure in calling me a liar. He looked like one of the Three Stooges, with black hair and a rotund face. I was terrified, handcuffed, and led to a police car. He accused me of lying, saying that because I didn’t look him in the eye, he knew I was dishonest.
The staff at the juvenile detention facility were in awe of how young I was. I was placed in a holding cell, crying uncontrollably. I was initially placed on the girls’ side of the facility, but the entire place was eerily quiet, as if everyone knew how scared I was. The intercom buzzed a few times, trying to calm me down, but the disembodied voice only made it more terrifying.
I was later moved to the boys’ side, and the staff informed me that they had all heard me crying and had stayed quiet to not make it worse. I spent what felt like an eternity there, waiting for a judge, my emotions a whirlwind of fear, confusion, and betrayal. A holiday delay meant that what should have been one overnight stay turned into five agonizing days.
But the most shocking part of it all was the realization that my own mother had given me up to the state. My mom, who I had seen nurture my siblings with tender love and care, had thrown me to the wolves. The contrast between how she treated them and how she treated me was a wound that cut deep.
I remember being allowed to stay home from the last days of the school year, knowing that when I went back, I would be labeled as the weird/disturbed kid. The cop who arrested me continued to target me, using my name to get “witness statements” for other neighborhood incidents. My family was really never quite the same.
These experiences have left scars that still affect me today. The betrayal by my own family, the harsh treatment by law enforcement, and the traumatic days in detention have shaped my beliefs and my understanding of free will. My trouble with the law was far from over, and anyone who has been in trouble with the law knows how hard it can be to get out from underneath, even as a kid.
Family Reaction and Impact
I don’t know how my family reacted during my arrest, but I know they were clearly upset afterward. My parents’ financial struggles were exacerbated by court-ordered therapy and medications, putting further strain on their relationship. I became the neighborhood’s favorite suspect, and my family was never quite the same.
My mom stopped participating in church activities, retreating from her once-outgoing personality. I know she felt guilty, but that guilt seemed to drive her into a narcissistic shell rather than genuine remorse. The ostracization from the community fed into their desire to maintain a good image, even if it meant sacrificing me.
Reflection and Looking Forward
These experiences have left an indelible mark on my psyche. I became interested in Anarchy, seeking solace in ideologies that rejected the system that had failed me. The way I was treated by Mormon leaders and mental health “professionals” continues to affect me, and we’ll delve deeper into these themes in the next post.
This part of my journey has been a painful one, filled with betrayal and confusion. But it’s a crucial part of understanding who I am today. My trouble with the law was far from over, and we’ll continue to explore these challenges in the next post.
Today, August 17th, the day I’m publishing this, is my late father’s birthday. Up to this point in my story, I still had a pretty good relationship with him I think. That would later change, and never really recover. I recently found his CTR ring in my things, and I have it on my desk this week and next in remembrance. Happy birthday, Dad.