Distorted sexuality was a cursed inheritance of my early faith. I didn’t understand that at the time. For my first two decades, I knew only the religious culture I was bred in.

Grasping a wider reality takes time, distance, and a variety of experiences. Expanding one’s perspective can be gut-wrenching if the origins were narrow. It usually requires enough suffering to create enough motivation to move beyond it.

For me, when it came to sex, the rules were supposedly clear. And I didn’t consider myself to have an unusual appetite for it. I was 23, a college graduate, and living overseas when I lost my virginity. (I’ve tried to articulate that ten different ways, but I’m sticking with the unenlightened lingo.)

It was not in a committed relationship. I was fresh into my first job in London. He was the HR recruiter who had hired me. It was after knock-off drinks that the company paid for. For all the indecency those details may infer, it was a precious encounter. My heart still swells with gratitude toward him when I recall that night

The next morning he drove me home. As we passed a church, silent tears began to stream down my cheeks. What had I done? I hadn’t felt bad about our time together until I remembered that I was supposed to.

Not long after, I changed jobs. We stayed in touch. I resisted the temptation of commitment. Instead, I hooked up with him when I was feeling fragile or lonely, and then disappeared with my temporary relief. He was unfailingly kind and respectful.

Contrary to all the warnings, I never felt dirty or disrespected with him. But I couldn’t actually date him. He wasn’t my brand of Christian (dedicated evangelical who wanted to spend life in some form of ministry). The indoctrination of my childhood, and the radicalization of my adolescence insured blindness to authentic affection.

That pattern repeated over the years. I hungered to be held. I traded my body to relieve my loneliness. I offered my body to provide hospitality. I struggled to access myself unless through someone else’s look or touch. Never was it carnal craving, I didn't know where to find that inside.

No one shared my deep (distorted) faith, so I couldn’t consider commitment. I’m afraid I may have seemed to have less respect for some partners than they did for me.

Eventually, I met the guy who fit my marriage material expectations. We didn’t have sex until we wed. Which we did seventeen days after first setting eyes on one another. We shared the same spiritual fervency. We shared the same evangelical cult history.

Nearly five years later, I was standing on a train platform, gripping the handle of my double stroller as my knees buckled. I was begging Heaven for permission to be done.

Chaos had knocked on the door during our honeymoon. Then it crashed with us on and off, typically arriving without invitation or advance warning. It paraded in a primal rage; accusatory, suspicious, verbally vicious. I wasn't an innocent, but I wasn't guilty of what it alleged.

For years I told the story of how my husband harmed me. He did. The chaos though was in us both. The week before I left him I was still performing my womanly duties without fail.

The relationship was abusive, but we were both complicit. We’d hopped into the marriage bed, each with our own dysfunctional behaviors and illogical beliefs. We feverishly built our marriage with these fucked up blueprints, and then eventually burst into flames.

As I wrestled my life out from the warped paradigms, I turned to religious leaders for help. One by one they turned their faces, or offered impotent phrases. Some suggested I was following the Devil, abandoning God and my husband. They gathered around him and prayed for my repentant return. Some testified in court on his behalf.

I was devastated at the time. But delivered in the end.

The apocalypse of my marriage cleared the man-made theological structures from my life. Rebuilding invited attention to things I’d never thought about when living inside those walls.

The moment I’d begged Heaven for permission to leave my marriage, I’d understood that God wasn’t forcing me to stay. As soon as I asked for release, I realized I didn’t need it. I was only in it because I’d chosen to be.

What else did I no longer need permission for?

Evolving spiritually is an earthy experience. It means digging down into the fecund darkness of your soul to remove the stones, and weeds, and contaminants. It takes deliberately planting seeds that are compatible with your inner climate. It requires endless tending, and patience through uncertainty.

I couldn’t have imagined how essential uprooting a cursed sexual code was going to be. Nor how many partners would provide blessed assistance.

I learned from magical moments and major mistakes. I learned from reflection. I learned to decipher my feelings and to feel my body. I learned to have intimacy while fully clothed. I learned to draw lines wherever I wanted them. I learned there is always more to learn.

My nakedness no longer made me ashamed before the gaze of Heaven. Still, there are eyes to consider. The once tiny ones that looked up from my breast, and now down thanks to ever-lengthening limbs. I learned to make each choice by how I would discuss it with my children.

Sexuality isn't an act, or variety of acts. It is the nature of existence, the richness from which all life, not just the newborn, springs. It is the sparkle of spirit to be celebrated in every human form.

My life today is a gorgeous, sprawling garden. Every plot and parcel interconnected by thoughtful intention. Joy blooms, pleasure blossoms. Tending never ceases.

There is no forbidden fruit.

As I walk the length and breadth, my most frequent companion is my Maker.

🦋