The Mormon Girl I Loved, the Cult She Wouldn’t Leave, and My Big Gay Mouth

When I was in the 10th grade in Bixby, Oklahoma, a new girl showed up at school named Ashley. And within about five minutes of meeting her, I developed what can only be described as a full-blown friend crush.

Not a romantic crush. I was already very aware that I was extremely gay. But this was different. This was that rare moment where you meet someone and instantly know: Oh. This is my person.

We just clicked.

Same humor. Same energy. Same ability to look at something ridiculous and lock eyes like, Are you seeing this shit too?

It was effortless.

Then, about ten minutes into knowing her, I learned something important.

Ashley was Mormon.

Now, subtlety has never really been my thing. So naturally, within about thirty seconds of learning this information, I said something along the lines of:

“Girl… that’s a cult. You should probably get out of that as soon as possible.”

Looking back, maybe not the most delicate approach. But also… I stand by the sentiment.

Ashley didn’t take my advice. Not then. Not for a very long time. She stayed in the church, deep in it, and it was always this strange thing sitting in the middle of our friendship. From my perspective… as a loud, proud atheist who already thinks most organized religion is a little questionable… Mormonism felt like the deluxe, extra-cult version.

And Ashley was all in.

Her parents were… let’s just say a little kooky. You could feel the weird church energy the moment you walked into their house.

There was even this bizarre moment once when I was over there and her brother told everyone that I had pushed him or slapped him or something. Which absolutely never happened.

Not even close.

I was a sarcastic gay teenager, not a WWF wrestler. But somehow that story stuck around and I think he even doubled down on it later, in life, like it was some dramatic childhood trauma.

Meanwhile I’m sitting there thinking, Sir, I barely acknowledged your existence.

But weirdness kind of followed that whole situation.

Despite all of it, Ashley was one of my favorite people in the world. I adored her. She was funny, warm, and had this sweetness that made people feel safe around her.

Not super important to the story, but she was a ginger. I had a thing for gingers. People thought they were strange… like black licorice. And I enthusiastically inhale delicious black licorice.

She was also my Senior prom date.

Which, looking back, feels exactly right. The very gay senior and the sweet Mormon girl with the slightly chaotic life path. It was probably the most honest prom pairing in the entire school.

Her life ended up taking a path that was… fascinating, to say the least.

She fell in love with a man in the Mormon church who turned out to be gay. Or, was already gay and influenced heavily by the church to do all things necessary to be married in the sacred temple. Which included becoming non-gay. They got married anyway. They had kids. One of their kids later came out as trans. It was. A. LOT.

And from the outside, I kept thinking, Ashley, the universe is practically screaming clues at you.

Like the cosmic equivalent of someone tapping you on the shoulder going, “Hey… maybe the church rules are not it.”

But Ashley stayed in it for years.

Eventually, though, something started to shift. She began talking openly about how the Mormon church had hurt her and messed her up. Every time I saw a Facebook post from her, it was about leaving the church, processing the church, unpacking the church.

Her entire life had kind of become about this one massive thing she’d been raised inside of.

But then she did something pretty incredible.

She helped organize a group of former Mormons who all formally left the church together. They wrote letters renouncing their membership and mailed them in. And Ashley was literally the one holding the mailbox open while everyone dropped their letters inside.

That part of the story is pretty badass.

Still, if I’m being honest, it also made me a little sad and angry.

When I think about Ashley, I don’t think about Mormonism or activism or religious trauma.

I think about the girl who walked into my high school in the 10th grade and instantly became my favorite person.

The girl I had a ridiculous friend crush on.

The girl I told within ten minutes of meeting that she was in a cult.

The girl who went to Senior prom with me.

Every year on October 10th I think about her. That’s her birthday. And for a moment I remember being teenagers in Bixby before life got complicated… before churches and marriages and identity crises and Facebook manifestos.

Just two weird kids who immediately knew they liked each other.

A couple years ago, I actually sent her a message on Facebook.

And I wasn’t very nice.

I basically told her that her posts felt like the same thing over and over again. That it seemed like her whole life was still stuck in the fallout of Mormonism from when we were kids. I think I even said something like, we’re pushing fifty and you’re still living in the shadow of something from the tenth fucking grade.

It was harsh. Too harsh.

That message probably had more to do with me than it did with her.

I’m bipolar. My brain can be a real asshole sometimes. I’ve got my own pile of unresolved mess… being gay, family stuff, anger, old wounds that never really healed the way they should have.

Sometimes when you’re carrying all that around, it leaks out in ways you wish it hadn’t.

I wish I’d said it differently. I wish I’d been kinder. I wish I’d been able to explain that underneath all that frustration was something a lot simpler.

I missed her.

I missed my friend.

The truth is, I loved that girl. I still do.

And sometimes I wish I had chosen better words so that maybe, just maybe, she’d still be in my life.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ASHLEY!!!!

Xoxo, AB 💅💄💋