by Vivienne Tuffnell
The news that there’s a move afoot to remove the term spiritual abuse from the categories of abuse in the church has left me dismayed. It shows the total lack of awareness of both what spiritual abuse IS and its long term effects on a person. Currently listed as a form of emotional and psychological abuse (which is fair), it’s my belief that spiritual abuse is a gateway for other forms of abuse that include sexual and physical abuse. Just as sexuality is considered an integral part of a human being’s make up, so too is spirituality, even in those who would consider themselves non-religious.
I have been a victim of a variety of abuse but I believe that the spiritual abuse may well have been instrumental in laying me open to the others. I grew up in a non-religious home where church-going was not a thing; previously both my parents had practised a Christian faith but by the time of my first memories, this had fallen by the wayside. As a small child I was fascinated by the numinous and aged 6 I made a shrine in my bedside cabinet using the nativity from an old Christmas card as an icon, surrounding it with whatever beautiful things I could find. I performed rituals for pet funerals, incorporating the concept of holy water. At the start of secondary school we were all given a Gideon bible, the New International translation rather than the much less accessible King James bible. I immediately began reading it daily, and began attending a local free church where I made a profession of faith aged 12. Ironically, it was my mother’s distrust of this church (she thought I was joining a cult!) that sent me to the local Anglican church, which is where steadily I became laid open for abuse. I’ve always been an oddball: unusual, intellectual and often felt alienated from my peer group at school. A few years ago, in my early fifties, I was diagnosed as autistic. Anecdotally, autistic people are often perceived as different, and are marginalised and often persecuted; I desperately wanted to be included in something beyond my immediate family and to have friends. In my later teens a youth fellowship group began, led by a pair of young couples. I have some fond memories of this group and some uneasy ones. We went away as a group for a week at Easter when I was 17, where the first identifiable instance of spiritual abuse took place. As an introvert I realise now I had become uncomfortable with the communal living and had become withdrawn and angry, needing my own space desperately, to recalibrate. One of the leaders took me aside to the retreat leader, an Anglican clergyman of the charismatic persuasion, who prayed over me, laid hands on me, to dispel or cast out the perceived “oppression” by spirits. This event played on my mind ever after.
Fast forward a year to my first term at university when the Anglican Chaplaincy ran a weekend retreat to Kinmel Hall in North Wales. These retreats were intense hot-houses of all sorts of experiences, and the rising tide of signs-and-wonders experiences, with charismatic worship, had been bursting out in the student chaplaincy for some time before this weekend. During the course of it, I again experienced the discomfort of communal living and that was made worse by noise at night stopping me sleeping. By the Sunday morning, I was angry and withdrawn and wanted to get out. I absented myself from the Communion service and went and hid on my bunk. I was crying and distressed. Someone from my fellowship group had spotted me crying, and had fetched the student leader of that group, and another former student who was an Anglican ordinand. These two people then proceeded to perform an exorcism on me, refusing to allow me to leave and forcing me to submit. At the time, I believed in such things and was terrified, of them and of what they implied was afflicting me. Afterwards they told me I must tell no-one, and left me to mop up. They offered me no support or guidance or any sort of debriefing of what had happened. I internalised the experience, ending up believing I was weak, a vessel for evil, and at risk of further possession.
The rest of my first year at university went downhill rapidly, with nightmares and anxiety leaving me exhausted and scared, and desperate for support that was not forthcoming. I had already been struggling with eating, but I stopped eating, became anorexic and eventually my body completely rebelled. After a tumultuous year I came down with mumps and viral meningitis a week or so before my exams and was very poorly indeed. At least one other person from my fellowship group experienced something very similar at the hands of the same student leader and had a total breakdown and left university completely. I have often wondered what happened to her. By the end of the summer holidays (which I spent in my digs) I was so mentally unwell I made a suicide attempt. It was a turning point. I didn’t get any help but somehow, a corner had been turned. I had realised I had been losing myself. The belief that I am somehow evil, weak, stupid and so on, still resurfaces, especially when I am tired and unwell. Knowing myself now, I can see that at no point was there anything spiritually wrong with me; yet everyone was constantly talking about evil spirits infiltrating society, oppressing people or worse. The idea of spiritual warfare was a topic for almost every conversation and bible study. I discovered in my mid forties that I have a connective tissue disorder; along with being very bendy, suffering pain and dislocations, it comes with anxiety and depression (with this condition you are 20x more likely to suffer from anxiety and panic disorders). In those days, among the people I moved with, depression and anxiety were seen as lack of faith or worse, a sign that you are being targeted by demonic forces.
In the years since then, I have found it impossible to be a true part of a faith community. Even the Quakers, who I consider to be my closest match for a spiritual home, I cannot commit to fully. My husband is a vicar; when I attend church (which I do sometimes) I have to sit near an exit. I can only tolerate services with either no music or very traditional music; chorus or modern worship music sets my hackles off. Both my trips to Taizé in France were marred by the unease the chants engendered in me. I will not now attend any smaller groups, and have startled people who have offered to pray with me by refusing vociferously. Certain words, phrases and attitudes make me recoil. A tiny, barely-surfaced vocation to priesthood has been strangled and buried almost before birth. I exist on the margins of faith, passionately interested and equally passionately repelled. As I get older, cPTSD affects me more and more, with multiple triggers and factors.
A secular response to the abuse I experienced (this is just a sample of some of it) would be to tell me to just leave it all alone, have nothing further to do with churches or faith groups. Yet this is something I cannot do. Spirituality is a thread running through me from earliest childhood; to cut and remove that thread is to cut the warp on which my being is strung. Just as sexuality is at the core of a person, so too is spirituality. Like other abuse spiritual abuse is about power and control, often masquerading as concern for the well-being and soul of another person. It was watching the documentary on Bishop Ball that made me realise that what had happened to me was abusive; I had internalised much of it, unconsciously seeing it as being my own fault. I spoke at length to the safeguarding officer but at this point, too much time has elapsed. Continuing further would potentially destroy my mental health, such as it is. Many of us are left in this position of knowing there can be no justice, no reparations, no changes.
Such things still go on. There is a resurgence of those patterns of behaviour and beliefs. Though it’s sometimes couched in slightly different language, it’s the same animal. The prevalence of it is still unknown, but if an outsider like me recognises it’s going on, then it’s on the brink of becoming a scandalous problem. It’s my feeling that unless the issue of spiritual abuse is taken seriously, there can be no progress in terms of growth. Nor should a church that has hidden, dismissed, concealed, condoned and even encouraged so many forms of abuse have any right to growth. The fact that it is considering withdrawing the term spiritual abuse is a red flag, because it strongly suggests that it does not consider it a real thing at all.
In my account I have deliberately avoided using emotive language or dramatic prose in describing what happened to me, but nonetheless I must assure readers of the horror of what I experienced and its lasting effects on me. I hope that it helps someone, somewhere, understand better the consequences of such experiences.