At 17, I was repeatedly asked specific questions by my bishop when I went in to confess the things I had done. I was asked whether I spit or swallowed. I was asked whether or not I masturbated, how often, and what I used. I was required to visit with him weekly and sometimes twice a week. I was forbidden to take the sacrament for many months, while my father (who had a “prestigious” calling in our ward) received no restrictions for countless sexual improprieties with prostitutes. After my mother was told by the same bishop to “go home and be a better wife,” I felt like a woman was to blame for all things sexual and a man could not be blamed, because he simply couldn’t control himself. I felt worthless and wished I was dead. I kept making these mistakes and was told I had to do multiple things to repent, yet nothing was happening with my father. An LDS social worker that my mom insisted I go to because of depression told me I was like “the pot calling the kettle black.” At that point I truly believed that because I was born a female, I was loved less. I continued to make very poor choices for the next five years; dating boys who treated me poorly because I deemed myself unworthy of more. It’s been a long time and I now have daughters of my own. They will never experience the behind-the-door interviews I did. They will know their worth.