Perhaps someday I should do a concept album about the crazy cult I grew up in. It isn’t as exciting as it sounds. Anybody who is familiar with the whole “Independent Fundamentalist Baptist” scene will know all of it by heart. Of course, it seems batshit insane to normal people.
Truth is, most of my passion, anger and bitterness about the whole thing has blown over. Most of that time seems like a barely remembered dream. Or maybe somebody else’s dream.
About once a year my dad will invite me to the yearly Christmas party. I politely decline and the night of the event he’ll say something manipulative like “I missed you at the party tonight,” but that’s about as far as it goes.
Sometimes I’ll run into one of the pastors or teachers of the school/church I was forced to go to. I try to hide, but if they see me I’ll say something. They usually sneer at me like I just put a cat turd in their hand. But at least they don’t scream and rant and rave about how I’m going to Hell anymore.