Alisha “Bee” Forrester Scott is a businessperson, artist and writer.
"In my childhood and young adult life, constructive improvements and changes for myself or others were not tolerated. I was raised in a cult religion by parents with then-unrecognised mental illnesses, such as clinical depression and paranoid schizophrenia. All forms of neglect and violence in our household were kept secret. We were not allowed to hold friendships outside of the cult community.
Despite my having been a gifted child, able to read, write and play musical instruments, winning at sports, able to speak publicly and perform-on-demand, I was constantly neglected and very severely punished. As was my immediate younger brother, who is one of my two brothers that are diagnosed as mentally ill. Inside my parents' home, personal privacy was never afforded to me. My room was regularly gone through. I never enjoyed a lock on any door except the bathroom.
Inside the cult religion, our thoughts, sexuality, clothing, language and behaviour were totally controlled. The same reverence was expected of everyone in “the church.” All of my immediate and both sides of my extended family are involved in the cult. What makes it more mindblowing, is that seven generations ago, my own ancestral kin was instrumental in founding and financially supporting the cult.
Alongside such control, secrecy was customary. In my family and within our closely-knit religious community, secrecy was demanded in order to protect the priesthood and the "sanctity of marriage and eternal life." Living up to standards of assumed superiority, being clean, “white and delightsome” and being beautiful at all times, were major tenets of the religious faith. We were expected to hold and maintain many great ignorances. We also were expected to accept and keep bigotry in play.
My parents worked for their church freely, as was expected by all members, except by those at the very top of the hierarchy such as the "prophet.” Both my father and mother perfected their own personal methods of climbing the religious ladder, in order to increase their social standing and gain respect from their peers.
Certainly, any expectations for what my future might hold remained out of focus and away from actual conversational discourse. I was taught that in order to have a bright future, I should put my shoulder to the wheel, be a peacemaker, obey those within the “priesthood,” and perfect all skills necessary to prepare for “eternal motherhood.” Just the same, competing, being a winner and winning at everything possible, were expected of myself and my next-younger brother.
In the cult upbringing, because I was a girl, I would never be allowed to receive any “priesthood power." And in fact, a boy of just 12 years old, who would be gifted “the priesthood” by ranking men, would be given dominion over grown women. Grown women would willingly submit to the wants and words of boys.
Girls were openly told to let the boys win; to follow the prophet and always prepare to have children in this life for god, whom they called “heavenly father.” Unlike the infinite volumes of religious text available from “the church” which spoke of the power of “the word,” “the prophet” and “heavenly father,” there were only verbal mentions made about the “heavenly mother” from which each of our spirits had descended from “in the pre-existence.”
As you might imagine, most girls in the cult ultimately wanted to know why girls and women were not allowed to hold spiritual powers, as the boys and men were freely given. As members of “the only true church,” we were sometimes reminded that, yes, there was a “heavenly mother”. However, we were taught to never ask about or speak of her, because she was “too sacred.”
While perhaps I did see some women enjoying this limited and isolating lifestyle, most other women in the midst of childrearing were taking prescription Lorazepam drugs, which obviously numbed them out. They wore fake smiles by default, did what they were told, and prayed that the afterlife would be better. My mother was depressed and obviously unhappy at her mothering duties and all the obligations that come with four children. But the numbing pills she took, and the prayers she was told to pray, allowed her to look the other way as the many abuses unfolded.
Through the course of my childhood and adolescence, there were several quite insane incidents involving my father’s behaviour, where he and my mother should have been taken to jail for abuse and neglect. Instead, all was kept secret. We children were compelled to remain silent. We were forced to verbally forgive after each incident. All in all, my mother turned an ever-blind eye and she blamed me and my siblings for being part of the chaos which my father always initiated.
We were financially destitute, with my father always quitting jobs out of anger or malice. And my mother was often beside herself with anguish. I have dozens of memories of my father giving her “a blessing” by “anointing” her head with oil. He would channel “heavenly father’s” words for her, using his “power of the priesthood.” He always included phrases about how money was coming, in order to calm my mother down. The money never came.
As I grew and began to question “why” things were the ways they were, it was obvious that my infinite philosophical curiosity about “church doctrine” truly pained my parents. They did not have any answers to most of my questions. In response to most of my questions of any type, included the phrases: “stop talking;” “pray about it, you’ll know the answer,” “fake it ‘till you make it,” “life’s not fair” and “do it right the first time.” And while these were the most used phrases in my family’s household, I could never make much sense of any underlying truths which may have accompanied them.
Furthermore, girls and women both were openly condemned and told to hush,whenever we asked questions about the role of a woman beyond having babies for “heavenly father”. As you can imagine, on all levels of life, this existence was demoralizing. And to this day in my parent’s cult, to which my mother still belongs (my father being passed away), girls and women are still forced to believe and accept that we are lesser beings; but somehow sacred. Through the years and to this day in their cult, motherhood is and was the only way that boys and men were taught to speak about why girls and women should be “honoured” or appreciated.
At age 12, I was gathered alongside others my age, and we were driven to the temple to “complete baptisms for the dead." This was a ritual that took place deep inside an opulent white building. The “baptisms” were held in a giant tub, held up by six life-size “calf” figurines. We were taken into a room, changed out of our “Sunday clothes”, and dressed into flimsy white jumpers which zipped up the middle. We were lined up on a little walkway preceding the “baptismal font” where a grown man we did not know, who “held the melchizedek priesthood,” was standing.
As children, we had constantly been taught and reminded that, with our help, and through the “sacred baptisms for the dead” ritual, some person we did not know, would be posthumously baptised “into the faith” and “by proxy.” We were told to accept that these lost souls who currently resided in “outer darkness” (hell) would finally be given “the opportunity to accept everlasting life;” even though they had already passed away. These were people who had not consented to this ritual. They had not been part of our “church” during their lifetime. Many of them were from completely other religions. To this day, I doubt their families know of the practice of attempting to take their souls “by proxy.”
Adults also perform this ritual in the “temples” in the font on top of the six calves. But today, the children were doing the work. During “baptisms for the dead”, we girls were to be given a woman’s name, to act as the “proxy”. The boys were to be given a man’s name, to act as their “proxy”. We were taught by a nearby adult that it was “vital!” that one’s entire body was covered in the baptismal water. But our feet could not leave the bottom of the font. And, if we did not go all the way under the water, we would have to repeat the ritual, in humiliation.
One by one, I watched as the children in front of me were called into the “baptismal font.” One would enter the font, and the man would look up at a digital screen which had a name appearing on it; the person we would act as “proxy” for. The man with the “priesthood” would say one specific prayer, adding in the person’s name, and then dunk each child underwater. I recall watching how the thin, white material on the jumpers we children wore became see-through as the water soaked it.
When it was my turn to enter the font, my heart was racing very fast. I was very unsure, and hoped that this experience would be finished quickly. I recall that the water in the “baptismal font” was room temperature. I recall plugging my nose with one of my hands, so that when the man leaned my body back and dunked me underwater, I would not choke. I recall being very embarrassed by both the fact that my own jumper was wet and easy to notice my body parts, and that I could see the outline of the man’s genitals who had dunked me. We were forced to perform this ritual twice each, before being escorted back into the room, to dry off and change back into our “Sunday clothes”.
Next, we were driven back to the church building and fed. We were debriefed about how what we had each done to participate was wonderful. After all, we had given a pitiful soul a chance at salvation. We were not to speak about this “sacred experience” to anyone outside church membership. Then, at the end of that day, we were picked up by our parents, or dropped off back at home by the church leaders. As it happens, this would end up being the only occasion in which I would be invited or taken into “the temple” for any secret ritual.
By my teenage years, I realised that I was in a hopeless situation. But I already had realised that freedom and escape can be purely mental. As I approached the age of 14, my world view and internal decision-making process started to expand. And suddenly, I am aged 14; expected by my family and church elders to receive a ritual called a “patriarchal blessing.”
This “blessing” was the only rite of passage (per se) that a girl would be offered or encounter, prior to womanhood (The boys also received this too, but at age 12, they had each already been given a form of “the priesthood power”). In this ritual “patriarchal blessing”, I was supposed to be “anointed with oil” at the top of my head (with olive oil); and a man aged in his eighties, who I did not know, would offer me the “patriarchal blessing.” This blessing was to be recorded on tape, and then transcribed into writing as a keepsake to always hold dear; a literal telling of “my future.” It was otherwise forbidden and taboo to associate with any sort of future telling, intuition, or psychic powers. Also in fact, “psychology” was deemed evil.
The girls and boys were never to speak of their own blessings, for they were “too sacred” and “deeply personal” to each one who received it. However, I decided to investigate exactly what was inside these secretive “patriarchal blessings.” My doing this was very taboo! But despite the rule against it, I began to quietly ask the older girls about their “blessings.” I would pull some of them aside during church or at the weekly activities we were forced to attend. This was always done one-on-one, so that they thought we were keeping our own secret.
However young, I was already distrustful of everything related to my parents and their religious beliefs. In my thoughts, I simply could not understand or reconcile how the many types of abuse, total secrecy and the future could hold anything great for me or my life. I was determined to find my own way; even if that way was simply learning to escape becoming numb and bigoted like everyone else around me.
The first three girls whom I asked, ALL had the very same blessing given to them. Down to the phrasing they spoke of - that they would be blessed with a wonderful husband who would protect them using the honourable power of the priesthood - and that they would bear many children between them to please “heavenly father” - ALL of the girls’ “patriarchal blessings” said the same things. This was shocking for me to learn. I decided that my own life would need to take a giant turn in order to be different.
So the day came when my father approached me about setting a date for the “patriarchal blessing.” When I said, “No,” he was beside himself. It was apparent that I was rebellious and not willing to obey. I was yelled at, sent to my room, immediately given a punishment - and for three months, subsequently grounded from leaving the house for any activity except church activities. This trend continued. Inside my parents’ home, during my ages 15-17, life was very harsh for me. In their world view, I was not doing what was necessary. They were very concerned that I would not stay a willing member of the church.
While I continued to excel at school and in sports, my family and home life were in shambles. Even though I gave the church the requisite “tithing” money from the little jobs I took babysitting or at the grocery store, both of my parents were severely disappointed and frustrated with me. Despite their signing me up for every single possible youth activity and youth leadership training position, I was otherwise disallowed from most every major activity and opportunity that my peers were joining.
It was not surprising to anyone I suppose, that at age 17 I ran away from home for an entire month. I went to live with a female peer whose mother had passed away and whose father was kind. This only further escalated the disdain which my parents exacted toward me. They forced me back into their home by offering me a choice: come home now, or I would be forced to - and taken out of the championship soccer match that was coming up. Defeated then with no real option, I went back to suffer in my parents' home.
And with that, I graduated high school and was anticipating becoming a legal adult away from my parents’ abuses. I was excited for what came next. Although my high school graduation had just happened, one day, my favourite non-member friend, who was almost 15 years old, committed suicide. In my parents’ minds, this act of suicide was an act of heresy. They openly believed those who suicided were automatically assigned to “outer darkness” (hell). They never talked about what I was going through. I remained deeply devastated.
It was just two weeks later that my paternal grandfather had a massive heart attack. This man had molested me as a very young child without my telling anyone, and for many years he openly called me by - humiliated me with - a boy’s name, “Pedro”. When near me, his constant kissing me on the lips very much bothered me. Between my dear friend’s sudden suicide, and one of my (several) abuser’s sudden death, I was spiralling. I felt absolutely invisible. I felt alone. I was officially numb.
However, I was young and still ready to escape everything that held me back. Namely, my parents and their cult religion. Now it was the end of June 1996 - and I turned 18 years of age; an adult by legal standards, who my father could not control any longer (in his own words). The day I turned 18 was to be my first day of freedom. Without my parents’ knowledge, I had arranged for my first job with medical benefits; had purchased my first vehicle and had found my first accommodation in the home of my first roommate. And just like that, I notified my mother of my leaving and drove-off with the very basics of life in hand.
This freedom was short lived, however, as I was almost immediately impregnated by a 19 year old boy at my workplace. Within months of escaping the fate of cult life, I was on the road to teenage motherhood. And of course, this was mortifying to my parents. They and their cult counterparts openly considered what I did a literal mortal sin akin to murder. Especially as, the boy who had defiled me, was neither “white and delightsome” nor was he a “member of the church”.
At that time, in my mind and very limited life experience, those who had any sense or handle on the future were able to access a way of life that only the rich had. But, from having attended a public school system, I had seen that people who "knew themselves" had the ability to apply themselves with an easy confidence (that had never once come easily to me). I wanted to feel confident in myself.
The day I told my parents about my pregnancy, they gave me an option to give the baby up for adoption. Instead of listening to my parents’ ideas about how my life might look, I opted to marry the boy who was to become the father of my only child and start a new life. Two months after announcing my pregnancy, eight months after my high school graduation, I was married to the boy in a large room inside my parents’ church.
My parents were constantly financially destitute. I recall the many unhappy moments leading up to planning the wedding. It was no secret to the family that my rebellion had been the cause of this pregnancy. I had not been living the gospel” For if I had, I would have stayed a member of the only true church and I would not have ended up living in this more difficult and embarrassing circumstance.
Being judged by my community, immediately living an adult lifestyle, losing most of my childhood friends, and being pitied by my immediate and extended family was almost too devastating. Losing the potential of any future for myself would normally have been a cause for my own suicide. Luckily, the new love I had for my new baby garnered me a new purpose. I would live for her. I would learn from her. I would work hard for her future.
The many types of abuse which happened to me and my siblings for those dark decades inside my parents' home were kept secret from everyone - until one of my brothers had a very public mental breakdown. When he was “going crazy”, he would openly confront my parents about their ways and abuses.
But by that time, the damage to my own psyche and spirit was already done. Watching my brother “go crazy” was another fire to be managed. Holding such great anxieties, experiencing deep triggers and traumatic responses hard to understand or convey, became my normal. It is true that repeating the mistakes and patterns set forth in my childhood home has doomed me for some time. The next two decades would in many ways unfold for me in much the same ways; in total chaos.
For context, I want to list some of the major dramas I have so far survived since age 20: divorce, loss of both immediate and extended family connections, terrorist attack, multiple sexual assaults in childhood and adulthood, toxic kidney disease, traumatic brain injury, loss of multiple businesses and livelihood, binge drinking alcohol addiction, loss of the small inheritance my grandparents intended for me and my daughter, passenger in a high-speed auto accident involving black ice, bladder cancer, major earthquake, losing three additional friends to suicide, sudden homelessness, financial destitution and most recently, grand theft, and the loss of my will to live.
But now, I would like to turn my life story into something miraculous. Throughout all my life’s most ridiculous choices and happenings, beginning when I was age 20, life started to improve, because I was going to take my name completely off the records of the church. This was the ultimate form of heresy - and I was willingly going to do it. In fact, I would be the first person ever in the history of my family to do it. And without any real guidance (except someone once told me to say as little as possible), I went through two very intimidating “exit interviews” with prominent “elders” dressed in expensive suits, sitting behind heavy wooden desks. And in two meetings spanning two weeks, without telling anyone in my family, I forced the cult to accept my demands of leaving.
Memories burned into my young adult mind include: two days after signing some sort of exit form, the cult contacted my mother and told her of my plans. She self-reported to me of her “...collapsing to her knees…” in spiritual distress. Then, about one-month after I signed that exit form, I received a letter in the mail from the cult headquarters. The letter literally said that, my baptism at age 8, and all of my blessings ever received, had been revoked; that I and my young daughter were going to “outer darkness” (hell); that if I wanted to return, I would need to take all of the new member lessons and be re-baptised, like the rest of the gentiles.
On to the next. Where, beginning in my mid 20’s, I began to more fully realise the power of combining my intentions, intelligence and efforts. I continually poured myself into creating new opportunities and learning in the ways I could afford. Perhaps this awakening was partially due to my brain becoming more fully-developed. So, for the greater part of the next 10-years post-cult, despite all of my own obvious ignorance and inabilities, I was making something of myself.
Always through working two jobs or more, I have spent my spare time donating time and expertise to good people of my community, my city and generally trying to improve life. I learned about what a passion project really is. I learned how to start businesses. I learned how to attract attention with my writing skills. I learned how to leverage connections. I learned how to benefit others using all of these ways and means. I have learned how to create opportunities for others. I have learned to improve life around me, even if I have often had very little money.
I would like to focus on the ways that love and life have kept me upright. The “payoffs” of focusing on myself, while providing value to others, has been quite incredible! My own spirit has often felt elevated. My creativity and abilities have mushroomed. I have more and more regularly felt “seen” in healthy and constructive ways.
I have been honoured with incredible experiences and enjoyed privileged opportunities by those who do not know my past. I have earned public service recognition awards. One time, I was called “a miracle” in a magazine article. I had one of my health and wellness articles appear on the front cover of a magazine and many others printed as well. I worked on pollinators' projects at a major film festival. I have had my photographic and diorama art appear in a museum for children. I have been extended entrepreneurship awards. Essentially, I have enjoyed participating in the planning and execution of big projects that help me feel connected to others and very much alive.
In fact today, both of my brothers are diagnosed as mentally ill and my only sister has moved away. She and I both removed ourselves from each other and from the toxic family dynamics altogether. My mother is still in denial of it all. From these incredibly difficult periods of my life, I regularly have hurt myself,and I have hurt others. But I have started to learn it is okay to feel proud of my existence, even if I am not performing or winning. I have improved.
I have sought guidance and now accept good advice. I am learning to regret less. I am more accepting than ever of my many faults. I am learning to be more calm and be kinder to myself and others in my thoughts. I am learning to focus on the love that is the superglue for which my life is held together; to focus on the positive. And with continued “life practice,” by the grace and kindness of others, by experiencing the blessings which come with being a mother, I remain alive and well. I am aiming to thrive.
https://alishabee.substack.com
You are also encouraged to track the forthcoming book featuring the work of artist Mark Noble, “Noble Pursuits of Light”.
