Born into the Children of God

by Natacha Tormey

  I went back into my bedroom and put my music on at full blast.

  There was a rapping at the door. I ignored it, but it got louder, more persistent. I opened it to see the elderly man who lived next door.

  ‘Yes. Can I help you?’

  He looked a bit embarrassed. He never looked very comfortable around us.

  ‘Your music is very loud. Would you mind turning it down?’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said, no, it’s not. It’s not loud.’

  He coughed. ‘I’m afraid it is. Would you mind awfully …?’

  ‘Oh, go fuck yourself.’

  I slammed the door shut in his face. I’d never in my life been so rude to someone before, and for a minute I thought it was hysterically funny. I ran back to my bedroom and turned it up even louder, laughing my head off.

  Then I realised what I’d done and I was mortified. I turned the music off and looked at myself in the mirror.

  ‘You stupid, rude bitch. What did you talk to him like that for? Who the hell are you? What have you become?’

  The face looking at me was ugly, angry, contorted. ‘Ugly bitch. Go away.’ I threw my hairbrush at my reflection, hurling insults at myself: ‘Backsliding bitch, stupid, useless, pointless bitch. What is the fucking point of you?’

  Very calmly I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a ball of string. I took it into the living room with the intent of hanging myself from the light fixture.

  As if choosing a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop, I assessed the light and the rope. The rope was too thin.

  I went back into my room and got the vodka. Then I went back into the kitchen and poured myself a long drink, this time mixing it with lemonade. Inside I was as cold as the ice cubes I put in it.

  I took the string and sat at the kitchen table with a pair of scissors. Slowly and deliberately I cut three very long pieces and began to braid them together to make a rope that would be thick enough to take my body weight.

  I must have sat there for an hour braiding it. I was crying but I was so scarily calm.

  It crossed my mind that this was going to be a painful way to die, but that was small fry compared with the thought of going on living.

  When the rope was ready I walked back to the living room and began to tie it to the light fitting. Everything was in place and I was just about to tie it round my neck when Marc’s face flashed into my mind.

  I screamed out to myself. ‘What the hell are you doing, Natacha?’

  I ran back into the kitchen. My hands were so shaky I could barely pick up the receiver. I dialled my parents’ number.

  My mother answered. ‘Mommy, it’s me. I just tried to kill myself.’

  She started crying and telling me she loved me. But as usual she didn’t really know what to say.

  She passed the phone to my dad.

  ‘Natacha, what on earth are you doing? Don’t be so stupid. Are you drunk? Calm down and take some deep breaths.’

  He was kind but quite tough. It was the kick up the ass I needed. I must have spoken to him for over an hour, and by the time I hung up I was feeling better. I collapsed into a very disturbed sleep.

  I woke up with the mother of all hangovers. But my mind was already clear about the next course of action. I maxed out my credit card and bought a return ticket to Réunion.

  I didn’t really think about the consequences of it until I was in the cab to the airport. That’s when the enormity of it hit me. I’d failed at work, at London, at life. I’d arrived in this city at my absolute lowest – depressed after the break-up with Thomas, grieving for Marc and with no idea what to do with my life. I was running on autopilot, still a clone of the cult, with no real idea of what made me tick.

  I think I began to understand that all I had really done was run away from my problems. My self-hatred, spite towards my parents and bitterness towards God were destroying me.

  I tried to convince myself going back was a kind of pilgrimage. I made a vow that I’d face my demons, deal with my parents and be back in London within the month.

  Chapter 21

  Reincarnation

  The wind tugged at my loose shirt, blowing tangled hair into my eyes. I let out an anguished wail, but my voice disappeared into the stormy night. Tropical rain pounded the tiny bedroom window ledge I was perched on. Tears streamed down my cheeks and into my mouth. I could taste their saltiness.

  I was drunk – very drunk.

  I stood with my arms outstretched as the wind buffeted my body. I was cursing and shouting, swearing and crying. The concrete patio was a long way below but I honestly didn’t care if I lived or died.

  ‘I hate you, God. I hate you. I hate you, Jesus. I hate you too, Grandpa. You bastard. You evil, sick, lying pervert. All of it was a lie. You lied to me!’

  I stood there vocalising all the hate, the deep-seated hurt and my anger and grief at Marc’s death.

  I wanted to fall.

  I let go and toppled backwards, falling onto my mattress. I landed safely on my bed – but my sense of helplessness fell in the other direction, smashing into a thousand pieces on the concrete. It felt good. Cathartic. A thousand hurts poured away, as if I had lanced a boil of emotion.

  When I woke the next morning the storm had blown itself out. Somehow mine had too. I had a new clarity.

  I could see my parents for the flawed personalities they were – blinded by their faith and brainwashed after years of submission to group rules but not bound by wickedness. Their mistake had been to believe in Grandpa (David Berg) and Mama Maria (whose real name I now knew was Karen Zerby). For me they were truly twisted psychopaths who ran The Family for their own ends. But my parents still hadn’t lost their faith in the cult, even after all the Davidito revelations. They insisted The Family had learned its lesson and was now changed for the better. I too accepted that not everyone in the group was bad; there were many good, honest and kind people, and so I wanted to believe their assurances.

  My mother had just given birth again, to baby Brian. She thought he was a gift sent from Marc in heaven and as such she idolised him.

  Her elegant beauty still shined, but she was tired and worn down from a life of constant childbearing.

  ‘I wouldn’t change a thing, Natacha,’ she insisted.

  I wished I could say the same.

  ‘When are you going to find a husband, settle down and have babies? Maybe this is why you are so unhappy. Is the “system” life really what you want? Turning your back on God has not given you what you wanted, has it?’

  She really thought she knew what was best for me. She always did.

  I wanted to leave Réunion and strike out on my own again. But as I walked barefoot on the island’s sandy beaches the thought of going back to another London winter filled me with dread.

  My mother was not long back from a short visit to a Family commune in South Africa. She was full of zeal and stories of a group of young people she had met who were doing God’s work there.

  ‘You’d like it, Natacha,’ she enthused. ‘The Family is doing a lot of aid work, helping the poor build their lives. The need is so great. It’s not like it was when you were a child. Mama Maria has really changed things. Everything in the homes is so relaxed and fun now. I think you’d fit right in. And there are some very handsome young men, too,’ she said knowingly.

  Little by little she wore away at me until I began to think she might be right.

  ‘It would do you good, get you out of this rut you’re in. You tried the “system” life. It hurt you. Giving your life to Jesus is the way to heal your pain.’

  As I wrote my diary that evening, I tried to get my head straight.

  ‘I know the Lord will work everything out for me but I am scared I will find myself in a position I can’t get out of. I must be very weak to even think about going back to the group. But the Lord will make the right decision for me.’

  I took my return ticket to London out of the draw
er and ripped it to pieces, only to instantly regret it and Sellotape it back together again. I was all over the place. But I made a decision to put my faith in Jesus and let him decide.

  My mother sniffed victory. She put me in contact with Paul, a man my age living in the South Africa commune.

  We began exchanging emails. He seemed nice, very devout and on fire for God. I was really beginning to think I might have found someone to build a future with. But as our correspondence developed and our emails became more intimate, he started to show a very unpleasant side. He became increasingly obsessed with sex. He would tell me all the different things he wanted to do to me. It was supposed to be sexy and a turn-on. He assumed that the moment I landed I would fall into his bed and swear my undying love for him. He also was very clear that any wife of his would be expected to ‘share’ – I took that to mean that he wanted to do the same. It left me angry and a bit sickened. Why did everything about our version of Christianity always seem to end up being about sex?

  A few weeks later I was walking home – I’d been out with a local friend from the Thomas days to hear a jazz trio at one of the local bars. We had a few drinks, a few laughs, and I left feeling quite upbeat, even normal. A tall man I didn’t recognise approached me just off the main strip.

  ‘Excuse, Miss, can you tell me where I can get a drink this time of night?’

  I pointed politely at the bar I had just left.

  ‘Yeah, great. Cheers. Oh. One more thing.’

  I nodded, enjoying the exchange.

  Out came a knife.

  ‘Where can I get a fuck around here?’

  He grabbed me by the throat and shoved me into an alley.

  ‘Please,’ I choked. ‘Don’t do this.’

  ‘Shut up and get your shorts off.’

  I’d thought about this moment often. All those years reading Heaven’s Girl and watching her submit to the Antichrist’s troops. She even managed to say ‘I love you’ as the soldiers took turns. Now it was my test.

  I tried to speak, but my mouth was so dry with fear my tongue stuck to the roof of it.

  ‘What? Didn’t you hear me, bitch? Do as I say or I’ll stab you.’

  He ran the knife under my breasts to make his point.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me. I’m a Christian. Please don’t do this.’

  He gave me a sneer of hate. Amazed at my own calmness, I carried on talking.

  ‘You don’t have to do this, because if you hurt me you will only hurt yourself.’

  He relaxed his grip on me a little.

  ‘You’re a nutter, lady.’

  ‘We can talk instead. Please don’t hurt me. Let’s just talk.’

  He was getting confused.

  ‘Stop messing with my head and get your clothes off, bitch. We’re gonna have some fun.’

  ‘No,’ I said with surprising firmness. ‘Are you OK? Are you upset with someone?’

  ‘What?’ he snapped.

  ‘What’s upsetting you? Why do you want to hurt me?’ I wasn’t begging or pleading. I amazed myself at how calm my voice sounded.

  ‘Because you asked for it.’ But at the same time as he said it he lowered his knife. ‘You stay here, though, right? We’ll talk.’

  ‘Yes, I promise.’

  ‘You aren’t fucking going anywhere.’

  ‘I won’t. I’ll stay.’

  My brain was working on full alert. I was beginning to understand his psychology and what I needed to do to stay alive.

  ‘So what do you want to talk about?’

  ‘Nothing. Just shut up. Sit there.’ He pointed to the wall.

  I sat down as he sat next to me. He pointed the knife again but this time it was more of a sweeping gesture than a stabbing movement.

  I sat in silence, thoughts whizzing through my head.

  I could see the roof of our house from where I was standing. It was so close I could hear Gypsy barking in the front garden. Should I try to seize a chance to run? I realised that if I did I wouldn’t get very far in my heels. Should I keep talking? Above all else I knew I had to keep him calm.

  After a while he started talking. I asked him about his family and he told me about his mother, whom he said he loved. I asked him how he would feel if someone treated his mother the way he had treated me. His expression changed from threatening to regretful.

  ‘I’m going to go now, OK?’ I said, moving slowly away.

  ‘OK.’

  All his anger had gone.

  ‘Hey, Miss. I’m sorry if I hurt you. I didn’t mean to, OK?’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’

  ‘Don’t you dare report me. If you do I’ll find you and hurt you, I swear.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’

  At that he turned and left, and I ran. When I got home I was hysterical and told my father what had just happened. He got straight in his car and drove the streets for hours trying to find a man who fitted the description I had given him, but to no avail.

  I felt dirty, ashamed and subconsciously convinced that it was my fault. If only I hadn’t been to the bar, if only I hadn’t been wearing such revealing clothes. The attack brought back all the old feelings of self-hatred I had felt as a child.

  I was scared to go out at night now. Even during the day I jumped every time I heard a male voice or a man walking past me in the street.

  My parents had finally entered the digital age and we had the Internet at home. To keep myself from dying of boredom I started to spend a lot of time logging onto various chatrooms. That’s how I met John, an IT salesman from Wales.

  He was funny and flirty and I began to think he might be a soul mate. We spent hours talking online. He told me all about Wales and his job, which sounded impressive. I told him a little bit about myself (but not about the cult). I did admit to him how hard I had found London life and how lost I had felt in the big city. He listened and encouraged me to try again, telling me that I’d get used to it, and to live my dreams.

  My conversations with him made me realise rejoining the cult and moving to South Africa would be a big mistake. Going backwards and getting trapped in The Family again was something I would regret.

  Mom cried when I told her and begged me to reconsider. ‘But look at what you are leaving. You could devote your life to God. Instead you are going back to an empty, shallow existence? Why?’

  Why indeed?

  It wasn’t only meeting John that had changed something in me. I had replayed the attempted rape over and over in my head a thousand times, and as I did so something shifted in my perception. I stopped blaming myself and accepted it could have happened to any woman. But, more importantly, I realised how my quick thinking and fast talking had prevented the man from actually raping me. I had talked him down and stopped him hurting me. My wits had saved me. When I looked at it like that I couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of confidence in my ability to survive any obstacle.

  When my plane touched down in London after a 14-month absence I felt stronger and more confident than I ever had. This time I pulled my luggage trolley through Heathrow with my head held high. The rhythm and pulse of the city no longer left me sweating with nerves; it felt right, real and solid. I blended in with ease, no longer the alien species.

  John took leave and came to stay with me for a few days. He was as good looking as I had hoped, dark, rugged and well-built. But the rest of it was a nightmare. All he wanted to do was get drunk. If I thought it was going to be a fairytale romance he drowned that illusion very quickly. On day three we sat in the pub watching rugby as he downed his seventh pint of lager. As I looked over at him with disappointment I wondered what it was in me that still felt the need to have a man rescue me.

  I stood up and told John I wanted to go immediately. When we got back home I told him it was over and asked him to leave. It was a disappointment, but ending our brief romance ultimately made me feel empowered. Finally I was making the decisions I needed to take control of my life.

  Others wer
e beginning to notice my new confidence too. I found a job in HR, which I loved. I socialised at work and developed a nice bunch of girlfriends, even confiding in one or two of them about my past. That was a big step, but they didn’t reject me or call me a freak. They just accepted me for who I was.

  Slowly but surely I was beginning to accept it too.

  I’d pretty much given up on men by the time a tall, sandy-haired guy approached me in the pub one evening. I couldn’t help but notice that his million-dollar smile masked a distinct nervousness. I liked that. I liked the idea of being a woman of whom men thought highly enough to be nervous around. I used to be the nervous, tongue-tied one, and the change of roles felt good.

  ‘Are you on Facebook?’ he asked.

  I laughed out loud. ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I thought maybe I could send you a friend request?’

  ‘What a line. Why don’t you just ask for my phone number instead?’

  Once Kevin’s nerves settled down he turned out to be funny, balanced and totally at ease with himself. He didn’t have anything to prove; he didn’t have a desire to control me or manipulate me. He was just … normal.

  We’d been dating for about six months – it was all very nice, and definitely the first time I had allowed myself to take a relationship one step at a time. There was no instant declaration of love, no getting carried away with myself and planning what we’d call our children after only a week of knowing him. We took it slowly and it felt like a very healthy way to get to know someone.

  But after six months things began to get more serious and I knew I had to tell him the truth about my upbringing. I could keep up my charade indefinitely, but doing so might drive me to madness. And if we had any hope of a proper future then I had to let him know. I also liked him so much I wanted him to know all about the real me. There was a risk he would dump me – I couldn’t blame him if he did – but I had no choice but to take that chance and confess all.

  One summer’s afternoon we sat drinking rosé wine on a blanket in his garden. It was so pleasant I almost didn’t want to spoil the mood. But I had to.