My Body, God’s Rules? Sexual Assault, Religious Trauma, & Eating Disorders

The effects of both my coming out experience and my SA contributed to my disgust with my body and the belief that I would never be small enough.

***This blog post is a personal essay that I originally posted on my Substack. If you’re interested in reading more of my thoughts, you can subscribe (for free!) to my Substack newsletter, which will also give you access to leave comments, message me directly, and connect with other subscribers.

Content Warnings/Disclaimers: This essay contains references to suicidal ideation, sexual assault, religious trauma, self-hate, and harmful rhetoric about the LGBTQIA+ community. I completely understand if you’re not currently in the space to engage with these topics, and I encourage you, as always, to consume content that is most helpful for you!

Lastly, this is entirely based on my personal experience. I’m aware that many people have had different and more positive experiences with religion. In what follows, it’s not my intention to offend any currently practicing evangelical Christians, nor am I suggesting that there is a single, universal “evangelical experience.” Furthermore, I’m absolutely not trying to convince anyone that Christianity is wrong or that they shouldn’t continue practicing it; religion can certainly be a beautiful thing, depending on the specific circumstances. Given that religion and spirituality are deeply personal and sacred, I fully respect if this is an essay that you opt to skip.

I’m feeling a bit (okay, a lot!) of self-imposed pressure to make a good impression for my handful of new readers. On that note, if you’re new here or this is your first time reading my work, I wish I could convey through the screen just how much I appreciate you. These past few weeks have undoubtedly been tough, but I’ve experienced a burst of joy every single time I receive a new subscriber or get a notification about a comment or like. Thank you – from the bottom of my heart – for taking the time to read this; it truly means the world to me!

This December marks two full years since I committed to my eating disorder recovery – a journey filled with many, many low moments. I’ve also been living with debilitating chronic pain for several years. While I had a “last resort” back surgery eighteen months ago, I’ve yet to experience much relief. Living in relentless physical pain is miserable; however, the mental toll it has taken on me has been significantly worse than I could have ever guessed. Yet, I’ve honestly found the logistical consequences of chronic health issues to be even more surprising than the psychological ones. My chronic pain has severely limited my ability to physically do so many “normal” things. As a result, my life has been altered in pretty significant ways – and, my first eighteen months of living in NYC have been nothing like I anticipated.

I share all of this to provide some context for what I’m about to say next. One of the highlights of this past week was seeing Clare Egan’s post about SurvivorStack, a collection of newsletters related to life after trauma that Clare has generously compiled. I was genuinely over-the-moon excited to find out that Clare was willing to include my newsletter in this directory. I started publishing my writing on Substack with one overarching goal: to help someone else out there feel slightly less alone. Whether you’re going through eating disorder recovery, living with a chronic health condition, deconstructing religion, navigating mental health challenges, are part of the queer community, or perhaps dealing with some combination of these things, I desperately hope that reading about my deepest, darkest thoughts brings you at least a tiny bit of comfort and a sense of solidarity. All are welcome here!

After discovering SurvivorStack and reading some remarkably powerful essays related to trauma, I’ve decided to share my thoughts about my personal experience with sexual assault – and the ways in which religion, queerness, and my eating disorder overlap with SA and with each other in complicated and perhaps unexpected ways. While I’ve written personal essays about my assault, sexuality, and religious deconstruction journey, this is the first time I’m publishing these reflections online.

I’ve hesitated to share so explicitly about these topics for a few reasons. To be transparent, I worry about my words being received in a way I didn’t intend; I worry about the possibility of offending someone by talking about my negative experiences with religion, since I know that Christianity has been a very positive and meaningful force for many others. Lastly, perhaps the biggest hang-up for me when it comes to discussing any sort of trauma or obstacle I’ve experienced is my acute awareness that “things could always be worse.” I acknowledge the immense privilege I possess based on factors like the color of my skin and my socioeconomic status. As such, I want to emphasize that I know I have much to be grateful for and that I’m extremely lucky to have access to valuable resources and support.

After expressing these concerns to my therapist, she told me I had two options: I can help no one by staying silent and not wanting to step on any toes, or I can potentially help someone else feel validated and less alone. So, here goes nothing!

The Intersections between Sexual Assault, Religion, and Body Image

I was sexually assaulted in high school. I know, through an objective lens, I was raped. Yet, I’ve long felt an intense resistance to using that word, both because it sounds so jarring, so harsh, and because my go-to response is to always question my perception of things. Maybe I’m exaggerating? It wasn’t really that bad, right? You shouldn’t complain! I didn’t tell a single person for over four years. Pressing charges, frankly, was never on the table, namely because this would have required me to tell someone.

In the immediate aftermath, I don’t actually remember blaming myself or feeling like I was partly responsible (although that’s likely what I would have been told). The only thing I distinctly remember thinking was, “No one can know about this.” I was vehemently committed to never, ever bringing it up – not to my closest friends, but especially not to my parents.

I’m 99.9% sure my parents would have believed me. I recognize that the fear of not being believed is one of the main reasons why so many survivors of sexual assault don’t come forward; this is completely understandable and absolutely heartbreaking. For me, however, my fear was that I would be believed, which meant attention would be drawn to my sexuality and my body. At that time, I was singularly focused on avoiding this, no matter the cost. (And it did, indeed, cost me a great deal mentally and emotionally, as a teenager who felt forced to protect her parents’ peace over her own).

I grew up deeply immersed in evangelical, fundamentalist Christian culture. Religion permeated every single aspect of my life, and this is not an exaggeration. There is often an assumption among active Christians that ex-Christians – those who have deconstructed their religious beliefs – are taking the “easy way out.” In my experience, this could not be further from the truth. The process of deconstructing ideologies that feel woven into every fiber of your being can be incredibly painful, scary, and isolating. There are many, many layers to this process, and I think there is typically a substantial degree of grief involved. The church community I was a part of embodied the stereotypical ideals you would expect from a conservative, southern, small-town environment – critical thinking and asking questions were not merely frowned upon, but, as the saying “Don’t doubt your faith; doubt your doubts” implies, any inkling of doubt about the validity of the Bible was inherently wrong.[1]

In many ways, I think it would have been far easier for me to stay. There is a lot of comfort and security that comes with the promises of Christianity; the possibility that things don’t happen for a reason and there isn’t some benevolent God with a plan for your life can be, frankly, terrifying. While I have a tremendous amount of peace and confidence with where my beliefs are now, it was a painful and distressing journey to get here – one filled with a lot of guilt, shame, and panic. If someone had told me ten years ago that I would one day not identify as a Christian, I would have found it absolutely impossible to believe. I give this context to emphasize that my religious convictions – specifically, my beliefs in an all-powerful God, my innate sinfulness, redemption and access to heaven only through Jesus Christ, and the mandate to live a holy, Christ-like life while preaching the “good news” of the gospel – were all-consuming in every sense of the word.

After I was assaulted, my desire to prevent drawing any further attention whatsoever to my sexuality and my body stemmed directly from one incident: my mom finding out (emphasis that this was not me coming out) that I was in a romantic relationship with a girl. It practically goes without saying that I was taught being openly queer was fundamentally wrong and sinful. This wasn’t a “gray area” issue; there was nothing ambiguous about it. It was also clear, however, that queerness wasn’t merely one of many sins; rather, it was, at least from the perspective of my parents and those in my community, the worst of all sins. Yes, you will go to hell if you choose to pursue a “homosexual lifestyle.” No, you can’t be a Christian and be gay. Yes, it does seem unfair that an all-knowing God who never makes mistakes would purposefully make someone gay while simultaneously mandating that being gay is inherently sinful. But, everyone has struggles and temptations, and “homosexual desires” are just some people’s cross to bear in this life. Simply put, coming out as bisexual to my friends, peers, community, etc. was never, ever an option for me – the backlash and ripple effects of this would have been far too much for me to handle, especially as a young teenager whose sense of self-worth hinged entirely on what God, her parents, and church leaders thought of her. (I write briefly about the grief that I now have surrounding this, and the inevitable “What ifs?” that come on the other side of deconstruction). 

All that to say, my church preached incessantly about how God designed marriage to be between one man and one woman – anything that deviated from this was wholly incongruous with God’s will. Living out of alignment with God’s will was unfathomable to me; at age fifteen, I couldn’t imagine anything worse or more shame-inducing.

Along with promoting a rigid heteronormative ideology, much of the content directed specifically toward women in the evangelical church is steeped in language about purity. As is the case with many high-demand and high-control religions, whether implicit or explicit, there tends to be a hyper-concern (obsession?) with female sexual purity. Yet, I don’t think that, after being assaulted, my so-called purity was my biggest concern. Given where I am in life now, I’d like to think that my reluctance to subscribe to this notion of being “tainted” came from a deeper sense of knowing that this type of ideology is – plainly – bullshit. (Furthermore, the perpetuation of this (extremely gendered) “pure/impure” dichotomy is rampant across evangelical churches and almost always results in placing blame on the victim of assault). More realistically, however, I think that any personal sense of sexual purity I might have had earlier in life was snuffed out by the events that unfolded after my mom uncovered the secret that I had been having a sexual relationship with my female best friend. (At that time, this was legitimately my biggest fear, because I knew that my mom’s response and the subsequent fallout would be really bad for everyone involved).

As you can likely imagine, my mom’s discovery had catastrophic consequences. It would take over a decade (and years of therapy) before I could realize that this incident was not only traumatic, but it also played a central role in who I became and how I behaved throughout my high school and college years. It was abundantly clear that the support of my parents, my friends, and seemingly everyone in my community was wholly contingent on my ability to cram these feelings deep down and keep them permanently locked away. This created so much inner turmoil and loneliness, which eventually morphed into a sense of intense self-loathing. (How could it not? I believed that I was intrinsically bad for being attracted to multiple genders, and that there would be eternal consequences for this). I was determined, at all costs, not to do anything that would let my parents down further, as it genuinely seemed that both their love and my self-worth were dependent on my ability to “never bring this up again.”

Part of this involved working as hard as possible to get good grades, perform well in extracurricular activities, and be as Christ-like and respected within my church community as possible. Around the same time, in addition to my escalating sense of self-hatred and the sense that I had disappointed my parents in the most abominable way possible, my home environment had become quite tense, as my mom and dad were struggling with how to best parent my younger sibling. Things were extremely volatile, and I felt nervous at all times inside my home. All that to say, I started to feel a growing compulsion to make myself smaller – both physically and figuratively – because I didn’t want to be a source of further stress for my parents. Although I can’t recall this being explicitly stated, I discerned, as the oldest daughter, a sort of obligation not to add any additional mental or emotional strain to my parents’ plates.

I began to experience an overwhelming pressure to take up less space. As my sibling began to demand all of my parents’ time and energy, I felt there was very little room left for my emotions, needs, or desires for support/reassurance. It became far easier to make myself “invisible” and to put on a facade of having it all together. I also felt as though I didn’t “deserve” to express my thoughts or emotions; I had committed the “worst” sin possible (from my parents’ perspective). I believed it was now imperative not to make any more “mistakes.”

On top of these things, I think that the power of positive reinforcement also played an important role here. Because I had let down both my parents and God in such a seemingly drastic way, I was desperate for approval and validation. As my feelings of self-hatred grew, so too did my dependence on the opinions of others. I don’t remember ever believing that my sense of self-worth was inherent; instead, it was something to be earned, something highly contingent on my appearance, academic success, likeability, weight, and – most importantly – whether or not everyone else thought I was doing the “right” things and being a “good” representation of Christ. Similar to how being praised for losing weight propelled me to keep losing weight (no matter what it cost), I was aware of my parents’ appreciation (relief is probably more accurate) that I was following all the rules and was (finally) playing the role of the good, Christian girl, which motivated me to keep shoving any “non-Christian” desires further and further down. Plus, compliments from teachers, church mentors, and anyone else who had a modicum of authority helped temporarily challenge that gnawing voice in the back of my head telling me I was bad, immoral, sinful, etc.

 The Dangers of Weaponizing Religious Ideologies to Justify Harm

When I started writing this essay, I hadn’t planned on delving into my “coming out” story, but as I wrote, I realized that my experience with SA and my bisexuality are inextricably connected, and it felt necessary to include them in tandem. My mom’s discovery about my sexuality and the ways in which my parents responded altered my perspective of myself and influenced how I behaved over the following years. All that to say, the abundance of rhetoric about female sexual purity, my profound shame surrounding my bisexuality, the sense that my parents’ love was conditional, my desperate desire to make myself thinner, and my mounting sense of self-hatred all created fertile ground for my instinct to stay silent after being sexually assaulted – expressing and working through the pain, fear, and horror that accompanied being raped didn’t feel justifiable in comparison to the further distress it would have caused my parents. I simply knew that my parents – or any other authority figure, for that matter – wouldn’t have been able to respond in the way I needed at that time.

I understand that Christianity can be a source of joy and peace for so many people. Likewise, I recognize that there are many Christians who completely respect that others have the right to their own beliefs and who do not exploit their personal convictions in order to hurt others; as such, I want to be very clear that my next statement is not intended to be a generalizing claim about all Christians.

I believe the deliberate employment of “Christian” beliefs, values, religious texts, etc., to justify behaviors and policies that result in real harm and trauma for others is simply not okay. This obviously isn’t a new take, but, I hope my story provides another example of how weaponizing these types of ideologies can be tremendously damaging. The effects of both my “coming out” experience and my SA played important roles in fostering a lot of guilt and shame. Furthermore, I’m confident that they contributed, in some ways, to my disgust with my body and the belief that I would never be small enough, that I would always take up too much space. My struggles with suicidal ideation didn’t come until many years after these incidents; however, they were nonetheless significant contributing factors to the development of my eventual all-consuming sense of self-hatred. This sense was so powerful that there have been multiple times when I’ve honestly wanted to kill myself (words I’m horrified to admit and never thought would come out of my mouth). Again, while I want to be abundantly clear that I’m not claiming that there is a direct correlation between Christianity and suicidal ideation, in my personal experience, which is all I can speak to, the homophobia, misogyny, and victim-blaming that often tend to accompany patriarchal institutions like evangelical Christianity did certainly contribute to my self-loathing. This is deeply, overwhelmingly dangerous, and I know that my story isn’t unique.

Lastly, I don’t know if I’ve ever actually felt a true sense of autonomy over my own body. This is difficult when you’re taught that your body is essentially “on loan” from God; therefore, everything you do with your body – and everything that happens to it – has spiritual implications. This mindset becomes even more problematic when sex and sexual trauma are added to the picture. In my opinion, this can compound feelings of shame and guilt and, for me, has further intensified the hang-ups I have around my “mind-body” connection.

In light of the recent events that relate so glaringly to these topics, it’s difficult not to feel hopeless. I am hopeful, however, that sharing about my experiences helps someone else out there feel less alone.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read this (far too wordy, rambling) essay. I’ll end with a quote from Kate Manne that sums up how I’m feeling: “Giving hope to others is not an obligation; continuing to fight on others’ behalf, at least when we have the wherewithal, is though.” I’ll continue advocating and fighting for the rights of women, trans communities, people of color, those who have experienced SA, those with mental health struggles, and every other systemically minoritized group – I hope you’ll join me!

Postscripts, because I just can’t help myself:

On the relationship between trauma and eating disorders: As explained by this study specifically, “there appear to be two main etiological pathways between sexual assault and ED. The first etiological pathway consists of the survivor’s negative perception of her body, including body dissatisfaction, shame, and fear of future sexual trauma… [The second relates to the] survivor of sexual trauma’s need to cope with psychological difficulties, including failure of the average expected environment, need for control, coping with psychological diagnoses, and regulation of emotions.”[2] (I think I was *lucky* enough to experience both pathways).

On the relationship between Christianity and eating disorders: I think there are numerous layers to my relationship with disordered eating and movement, and there is undoubtedly no single “origin” of my body hang-ups. I do know, however, that after my mom discovered that I was bisexual, the sense of repulsion that I felt towards myself also merged into being repulsed by my own body. For as long as I can remember, my self-worth has hinged on my physical appearance; my parents (perhaps unconsciously) made it clear that weight is one of the most important things about an individual. Weight in my household was imbued with morality – gaining weight was “bad” and “wrong,” while losing weight was “good” and “right.” There was a genuine sense that “struggling with one’s weight” was not merely a character flaw and a sign of “weakness,” but was actually a sin (which, just like “non-straight” sexual desires, could have eternal consequences). Part of caring for your body – which was a temple, designed and entrusted to you by God – implicitly meant not weighing above a certain number and demonstrating “self-control” with food. Maintaining thinness felt – seriously – like a moral, Christian obligation. While impossible to say with certainty, I think it’s very likely that I would have developed an ED regardless of the trauma related to my bisexuality and the sexual assault; however, I can confidently say that these things did contribute to the above-mentioned all-consuming desire I developed to make myself as small as possible.

On my parents: I want to make it clear that my parents have many wonderful qualities. They’re both very selfless and generous, and they’re willing to go above and beyond for those they care about. I also recognize that they each have their own personal traumas and experiences that necessarily played a role in how they parented. I know that their intentions – with my sexuality, body image/weight issues, religion, etc. – were not malicious. I think that they were doing the best they could with the tools and the knowledge they had. They were almost exclusively surrounded by others who were advocating that Christian values were the most important things to pass on to your children. I think it’s possible that they would now say there are things they wish they had done differently. I can understand, especially in the community we were a part of, the prospect of having an openly queer daughter was likely absolutely terrifying. I also don’t know what it’s like to be a parent, and regulating my emotions while simultaneously helping smaller humans regulate theirs sounds, plainly, awful. All that to say, I want to be a person who abounds in empathy and forgiveness, and I recognize that we’re all just doing our best. However, I also felt like it was important to share my perspective because, regardless of intent, the impact of some of their actions and words was, unfortunately, quite harmful. While I don’t think my parents were intentionally attempting to use their religious convictions to harm others, I do think that we’re seeing this happen right now at alarmingly dangerous rates.

[1] I recently discovered that a very similar statement – “doubt your doubts, not your faith” – is commonly repeated among members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (attributed to Dieter F. Uchtdorf). I realized this while listening to one of my favorite podcasts, Girlscamp, and chuckled because I was told “Don’t doubt your faith; doubt your doubts” many times during my adolescence. Apparently, there are debates about where exactly the expression originates – regardless, this one of many interesting overlaps between LDS and evangelical culture. You can read more about this here. (Yes, I’m citing a Reddit thread!).  

[2] Madowitz, Jennifer, et al. “The relationship between eating disorders and sexual trauma.” Eating and Weight Disorders - Studies on Anorexia, Bulimia and Obesity, vol. 20, no. 3, 15 May 2015, pp. 281–293, https://doi.org/10.1007/s40519-015-0195-y. (I have a PDF of this article, in case anyone wants it!).