Let’s begin by establishing my opinion, bordering on established fact, that Mormons — with the notable exception of Mitt Romney — are exceptional, high-caliber people, by and large.
They are to be found all across the world, spreading the word of God with a bright cheer unrivaled by any sect of any religion, perhaps in the history of the world.
Related: Converted Pagan Headhunters and the Shining City on a Hill
I have met them in Thailand, Ukraine, and many places else, and usually carve out a couple of minutes to chat with them, not because I’m interested in becoming Mormon but because they remind me of what it’s like to be serenely devoted to something outside of one’s self, whether the particular passion or ideology is misguided or not.
My grandfather, who happens to be caustically atheist in the vein of George Carlin, married one (I’m not sure how that marriage works, but it does and apparently well), and so I had the occasion to meet quite a few Mormon missionaries whom he and his wife host for dinner whenever they are assigned to missionary posts around Topeka, Kansas.
Some take a different route than the missionary one after being raised in the Church. They buy sex toys for their children as a peculiar form of feminist self-empowerment and develop an affinity for profanity.
From a HuffPost story titled, subtly, “How A Dildo Party Helped Me Leave Behind Everything I Knew And Find My Place In The World”:
The church had an explanation and a rule for everything. My life was prescribed to me by men. The penultimate goal: a temple marriage. The ultimate goal: a gaggle of children to indoctrinate.
The church has manuals for each year of childhood. They are full of saccharine lesson plans on how to pray, what to eat, read, watch, wear. How to be a neighbor, a friend, an obedient servant of the Lord. How to spend time and money, stay sexually pure, repent of sin. How to become worthy.
Doubt was the devil’s work, and it had festered in me since I was a small child. I felt suffocated by the rules, but I knew no other way…
When I gave birth to my second daughter, I knew I could not teach my children to be Mormon. Rick finally recognized my suffering, and we broke free.
I quickly discovered that leaving a world of blind obedience was, in a sense, like death. Every part of my life had been dictated by the rules of Mormon men. I didn’t know my own mind. While my girls were learning to crawl, I was frantically trying to find a sense of self, but it was impossible to grow up faster than my babies.
I did the easy things first. I bought tank tops and colorful underwear and shorts that did not skim my kneecaps. I drank coffee. I sampled gin and vodka from tiny bottles. I spent money on Sundays. I dared to say the word “f**k” out loud…
I’m not entirely sure how “saying ‘f**k’ out loud” helps assuage feelings of disillusionment with the Church, but whatever. Slay on, slay queen.
Related: Hillary Claims ‘Climate Change’ Killed 500,000 Last Year, ‘Particularly Pregnant Women’
Profanity aside, this lady’s acrimonious break-up with the Church is about to take a much darker tinge, relaying her attendance at a “dildo party” in her neighborhood:
Once I was home, I told Rick about the party: the comfortable way moms and daughters passed around vibrators, cock rings and butt plugs, none of which I had ever seen or understood just a few hours before. I realized how vast the work would be to grow myself up.
As our girls began preschool, my desire to know the right way to mother was all-consuming. Is it OK to let them play with a pretend coffee maker? Should preschoolers wear a two-piece swimsuit? A sundress with thin straps? Is it bad to take the Lord’s name in vain if we don’t believe in the Lord?...
A few months ago, I was having dinner with a friend who is more conservative than I am with kids younger than mine. I told her I was considering buying my teenagers vibrators. She gasped loud enough to draw attention. She couldn’t imagine a worse idea. But I’m not sure. I want them to know their own bodies — to enter sexual relationships from a position of confidence and understanding. My friend was scandalized.
“They’ll get one for themselves — as adults,” she said. She’s sure I’m crossing a line. Am I going too far? I haven’t decided. But I’m starting to understand that the right decision isn’t in a manual. It’s the one I will make.
This is all totally normal, well-adjusted behavior of an adult woman reclaiming her stolen, empowered, brave and stunning identity from the Patriachy™.
