Bad Mormon: A Memoir

by Heather Gay

I didn’t even know that we were religious. I just thought that we were better than everyone else.

I didn’t want to have to pretend this felt spiritual or normal or godlike. Because it didn’t. It felt fucking weird.

The beliefs aren’t reinforced by strangers, they’re reinforced by the people who love you most. And it’s in that moment that you don’t really have a choice. You believe. You fall in line. You commit.

The capacity to shut off an entire part of yourself is a terrifying thing.

There’s something to be said about preaching eternal life while slowly dying inside. As it turns out, saving souls can be soulless work. It was painful. It was hard. It wore us down. It more than pulled on our heartstrings, it strung us out wholeheartedly.

A woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets.

Mormons are as devout as the men and women in Borough Park or on Bedford Avenue with their yarmulkes, their payos, their wigs to cover their hair. We just hide it from the world. We are zealots on the inside, masquerading as good old-fashioned, “God bless America,” go-with-the-flow soccer moms and dads.

I was taught to say “no” to a lot of things outside of our faith. But inside the faith, I was taught only to bow my head and say “yes.”

I thought being cherished and protected was better than being respected and heard.

I didn’t need to worry about my own life anymore, because I didn’t really have my own life anymore. I was a wife. A plus-one to the patriarchy that ruled and reigned.

In a culture that believes perfection is attainable, we often internalize the pain of falling short.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and Andy Cohen. Amen.