I just got finished feeding the chickens and the horses. You heard that right–chickens and horses.
I have the great fortune of having an awesome studio apartment, which just so happens to be a guest house on what Chris and I call Animal Kingdom and The Farm. My landlord has two horses, twelve chickens and two dogs and when she’s out of town, sometimes I feed them for her.
The other night, my landlord invited me and some of her neighbors to dinner. We all made our plates and went outside by the pool to sit by the fire pit. As we ate, she mentioned to everyone that I was writing a book and of course they asked what it was about.
—Well, I was in a cult for seven years.
It’s still never easy to start telling this story to anyone and my voice begins to get that shaky, uncertain quality. No matter how kind or understanding the people are, I always start the look that says, Omg, this is weird.
It is weird, but indefinitely, the conversation steers toward a barrage of twenty questions, shot to me like a machine gun.
Why did you stay?
What makes something a cult?
So, you’re writing negatively about the church you were in?
Did your parents send you there?
No matter how long I’ve blogged about it it never gets any easier to talk about the awkward things in life.