Public humiliation became a bitter companion in my novitiate life, a constant echo in the chambers of my heart that I had to navigate but there was one moment that stands out—a moment that encapsulated the essence of my pain and resilience when faced against it.
I stood on that table, surrounded by faces I thought I knew. Mo. Ethel unleashed a torrent of harsh words directed at me, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. Each insult was a weight added to my heart. I watched as the sisters, their eyes filled with reluctance and sorrow, echoed their humiliatingly sentiments, being compelled to speak words that were not their own. In that moment, I felt utterly alone, surrounded by a community that had turned into what felt a battleground.
Desperation seeped into my soul, and I found myself pleading for God's grace. This woman, her intent on breaking me, had no idea how close I was to the edge. Often, I teetered on the brink of surrender, but it was in these darkest hours that I forged a profound connection with the Blessed Virgin Mary. I turned to her for the motherly love I so desperately craved and needed in the moment, a love that felt distant in the harsh reality of my surroundings.
Despite my current detachment from the Catholic Church, that connection remains a lifeline. The miraculous medal I wear daily serves as a reminder of the strength that can be found in vulnerability. Yet, the humiliation I faced felt like an unending cycle—a relentless storm that battered my spirit day in and day out.
The assistants, almost like predators, thrived on our struggles. They critiqued my very essence; from the way I walked to my posture, everything was scrutinized under their unforgiving gaze. I was once made to walk with books on my head to “improve” my femininity and posture, a futile attempt to continuously try and mold me into something I was not.
One particular day, pushed beyond my limits, I lashed out. Lucy, an assistant, had crossed a line, physically imposing herself by putting her hands on me when I was struggling with sleepiness during prayer. I was at my most vulnerable. In that moment of rage, I struck back. I punched her straight in the face. The consequence? Three days of isolation, a separation that felt like a punishment for simply being human. The manifestations that followed were brutal; they sought to peel back the layers of my soul, exposing my innermost fears and doubts to those in power.
Holy Obedience, they called it—a guise for manipulation and control. I fought back with every ounce of my being, my mind and will becoming my only allies in a world that sought to strip me of my identity. Ironically, it was this defiance that saved me, even as it threatened to consume me.
They convinced themselves that their motherly affection was for my own good, that their harshness would lead me to become the saint they envisioned. Yet, within the confines of those walls, I felt the weight of their expectations suffocating me. I often thought of my family—my siblings and grandparents—yearning for their warmth. But expressing that longing would lead to more punishment, a cycle of shame and silence that felt inescapable.
Our families became scapegoats for our suffering, the reason we were told to endure pain and humiliation. “Offer it up,” they repeated like a mantra, as if suffering was a virtue to be embraced rather than a burden to be shared. In the depths of my heart, I harbored a profound regret: I never got to say goodbye to my grandparents. They were my rock, my refuge, and in their eyes, I had become a phantom of the person I once was.
The day my grandparents fell ill, I longed to return back home to the United States, to apologize for leaving things unsaid. But I was trapped, a prisoner of circumstance. My parents, unaware of the reality I faced, thought they were doing what was best for me—trying to “wake me up.” Little did they know, I was awakening, but it was amidst a nightmare, with no way to escape.
Their pain mirrored mine. They watched their once-strong child vanish without a trace, leaving them to grapple with the uncertainty of my existence. And yet, as I navigated this labyrinth of humiliation and longing, I held on to the hope that one day, I would reclaim my voice and my story.
The memories flood back with a relentless tide, each one a reminder of the rinse-and-repeat cycle of deliverance ministry, humiliations, and the ever-present mantra to "offer it up." It's a pattern that plays in my mind like a haunting melody, echoing the struggles of those who came before me and those who still remain trapped in its grasp. Reflecting on these moments, I often wonder about the ones who weren’t as strong as I was—those who succumbed to the weight of it all.
One of the most insidious tools wielded against us was fear. Fear became a weapon, carefully crafted to silence doubts and questions. The deliverance ministry thrived on this fear, creating a culture where curiosity was met with suspicion and reprimand. I remember being taken to a deliverance and healing retreat in Ireland, a place meant to enlighten but instead shrouded in darkness. Mo. Agnes, aware of my growing questions, seemed determined to steer me back into the fold of unquestioning obedience.
The outside world was painted as an enemy—a realm filled with "infestations" and "hexes." They taught us that anything outside their doctrine was a threat to our very souls. It was at this retreat, focused on those who had dabbled in what they deemed "witchcraft," that I was confronted with the chilling reality of their beliefs.
I recall a woman sharing her story, recounting the suffering she endured after flirting with the devil. Her tale was one of pain and torment, a cautionary reminder of the consequences of stepping beyond the prescribed boundaries. But what happened next is forever etched in my memory.
During a deliverance session led by Fr. Bing, the atmosphere in the room shifted dramatically. A woman began to scream, her voice a raw expression of terror, as if she were being choked by some unseen force. To my horror, I saw her body lift off the ground, suspended six inches against the wall, with no one near her. In that moment, a primal fear gripped my heart. I turned to Olivia, desperate for reassurance. "Did you see that?" I whispered, my voice trembling. She nodded, her wide eyes mirroring my own shock.
It was a moment that solidified the fear they instilled in us. The looming threat of becoming a "mis-fit" if we ever dared to leave our vocation was a reality we could not ignore. The idea of subjecting ourselves to the attacks of the devil became a chilling motivator, one that kept many of us ensnared in a life we didn’t choose. For me, it was five long years—a time marked by confusion and fear-driven loyalty.
I often found myself reflecting on the Filipino sisters who chose to stay, their commitment baffling to me. If I were in their shoes, in their homeland, I would have run far away, leaving that life behind without a second thought. But for many of them, this institution was more than a calling; it was a refuge. They came from backgrounds steeped in poverty, and the community offered them safety—a warm meal, a place to lay their heads, and a sense of belonging.
It was heartbreaking to realize that their longing for community could lead them to endure the very chains that bound them. In their eyes, this place was a lifeline, even as it became a prison. As I looked into their faces, I saw the flicker of hope mingled with fear—the struggle between the desire for freedom and the fear of the unknown.
The journey through those years has left scars, but it has also ignited a fire within me. I now understand the importance of speaking out, of sharing our stories to illuminate the darkness that once enveloped us. Those who remain trapped deserve to know that they are not alone, that there is a world beyond the walls of fear and humiliation.
In sharing these reflections, I hope to resonate with anyone who has felt the suffocating grip of fear or the loneliness of silence. May we find the courage to break free, and to reclaim our voices. I hope to resonate with those who have felt the weight of silence, the sting of humiliation, and the longing for connection. May we all find the courage to break free from the chains that bind us and to embrace the love that awaits us, even in the darkest of times.
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