I was 10 the first time my parents made me go confess masturbation to the bishop. Ten years old! They told me that sexual sin was 2nd only to murder, and my feelings of self-worth went right down the toilet. I felt doomed and terrified. Luckily my first bishop was very kind and gentle-mannered, and told me that what I shared with him really wasn’t a big deal. Though it greatly contrasted the message my parents communicated to me, it was comforting to know that I likely wasn’t headed straight to hell with the murderers.
Two years later my bishop told me, “Wow, girls masturbating is rare. That means you have a good sex drive and will have a very lucky husband some day.” I was so humiliated. Who says that to a child? My bishop at 14 years old was cold and shamed me. He told me that I couldn’t take the Sacrament again until I met with him again and could report better behavior. No talk of a Savior. No comfort through teachings of forgiveness.
At age 17 I felt the need to go see a bishop again. I didn’t have anything new to confess, but my guilt never went away. This bishop sat me in his office in the front of his house, closed the door and left the room unlit. There was a little bit of natural light coming in the room as the sun set but he never turned a light on. It was quite dark in the room and felt very strange. He then asked me to tell him in detail about every instance I could recall, that I had masturbated or done anything sexual, whether or not I had confessed it previously. It was so uncomfortable! I was there for nearly two hours trying to get it all out and listening to him talk to me about sexuality and how wonderful it is. When I told him about one thing I had done, he seemed very intrigued and smiled. He said, “Hmm, that’s interesting. I’ve never heard of anyone doing that before.” The whole situation felt very voyeuristic and perverse. I hoped to feel relief as I left. I only felt disturbed. For many years after, every time this bishop would see me, he’d give me a big hug and keep his arm around me. On a few occasions he whispered in my ear, “You’re so special. You and your sisters are all great. But you are special to me.” It made me so, so uncomfortable!
I never could let go of the guilt. In college a bishop told me, “I can’t help you. I’m not a therapist” and sent me away. He was correct. He wasn’t a therapist. But for me it was the first sign that I needed a therapist. That the whole thing had greatly contributed to mental and emotional instability.
When I went in at 21 for my mission papers interview with my stake president he was the bishop I’d confessed masturbation to at 14. He asked me the law of chastity question. I was able to say with assurance that I obeyed the law of chastity. He raised his eyebrows and said, “Are you sure?” I told him that I was sure. He continued the questioning. When he asked whether there was anything in my life that I needed to confess and hadn’t, I truly didn’t. But he pressed and said he felt like there was something else I wasn’t fessing up to. He sent me away without signing my mission papers, under the guise of needing more detail in the medical section of my paperwork. I left the interview confused and hurt and angry and embarrassed.
When I went in at 21 for my mission papers interview with my stake president he was the bishop I’d confessed masturbation to at 14. He asked me the law of chastity question. I was able to say with assurance that I obeyed the law of chastity. He raised his eyebrows and said, “Are you sure?” I told him that I was sure. He continued the questioning. When he asked whether there was anything in my life that I needed to confess and hadn’t, I truly didn’t. But he pressed and said he felt like there was something else I wasn’t fessing up to. He sent me away without signing my mission papers, under the guise of needing more detail in the medical section of my paperwork. I left the interview confused and hurt and angry and embarrassed.