Liberated From Silence

By Tessa S Jensen

A story about a woman finding God after religious manipulation, mental illness, and abuse.

Shame stitched her mouth shut, abuse scalded her voice, and religious manipulation taught her that she must earn unconditional love through self-inflicted torture. Tessa understood her failings before she knew her favorite color. "You're

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tessa Shanay Jensen
• Release date: Mar 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985832624

Book preview

LiberatedFromSilence

Written byTessaJensen

Disclaimer: All names, except Tessa, Eric, Bruce, Fiona, Oliver,andVivian,arepseudonyms.Anylikenesstoalivingpersonwith my

chosenpseudonymsisunintentionalandcoincidental.

Copyright©2022TessaJensen

Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybereproduced

orusedinanymannerwithoutthepriorwrittenpermissionofthe

copyrightowner,

exceptfortheuseofbriefquotationsina bookreview.

Torequestpermissions,[e-mail]

PaperbackISBN:979-8-9858326-0-0

FirstpaperbackeditionMarch2022Edited by Lainey Nielsontessajensenauthor.com

Contents

Introduction      i

TheJoy      1

TheSorrow      16

ChapterOne      17

ChapterTwo      28

ChapterThree      46

ChapterFour      73

ChapterFive      90

ChapterSix      104

ChapterSeven      120

ChapterEight      125

TheSource      140

ChapterNine      141

ChapterTen      162

ChapterEleven      178

ChapterTwelve      200

ChapterThirteen      206

TheSpaceBetween      216

ChapterFourteen      219

TheGrace      235

ChapterFifteen      236

ChapterSixteen      249

ChapterSeventeen      258

ChapterEighteen      265

ChapterNineteen      269

ChapterTwenty      274

ChapterTwenty-One      280

ChapterTwenty-Two      287

ChapterTwenty-Three      293

ChapterTwenty-Four      298

ChapterTwenty-Five      305

Acknowledgements      309

ForallwhowonderifJesusChristlives,

Yes,foranywhowonder ifHeisaGodofmiracles,

Unimaginable,impossible,unforgettablemiracles

Introduction

Hi. I’m Tessa, the author and main character ofLiberated fromSilence. I spent years writing my memoir and almost gave up at leastone hundred and seven times. I told myself that I didn’t have anythingworthsaying.

However,when I repeatedly heard of people turningfrom theirfaith,I knew the time had come for me to speak. My story, my life, is one ofJesus Christ’s modern miracles. What He has done for me He can do foryou because Jesus Christ is a merciful God who has the infinite powerto redeem. He cannot stop loving you, and you are never beyond Hisreach;it’s100%impossible.

The scope of the Lord’s miracle in my life nearly burst my heart withjoy when I saw the final front cover of my book; it took a few minutestoreconcilethatthewomanIwaslookingatwasme.

Is that me? I asked myself, When did I start looking like I knowwho I am? What happened to the shame-filled, scared, self-destructivewoman who pleaded with God to forgive her existence? The womanwho believed Jesus Christ’s unconditional love must be earned with aprice so high she couldn’t compete in the marketplace? That her battlewith years of abuse and mental illness was her fault, and if she only hadmore discipline, she could finally silence Tessa? And if Tessa waspermanently quiet, God would finally love her like astepdaughterinstead of like, well, like a dog. A celestial dog. That woman is gone,andIdon’trememberthedaysheleft.

If all you could see of my life were this moment, you would rightlyconclude that I have everything I want - my faith, covenants, family,salt-of-the-earth friends, an education, a place to call home, a cozy bedto sleep in, and a few obnoxiously cute pets. I’m productive and fit. Ismile willingly, start conversations with people I don’t know, talk foran hour, and usually make a new friend. My husband treats me like aqueen, and my kids are healthy. So, what could I know of sorrow andmisery?

Well, if you saw a snapshot from 2006, the answer to that questionwould be self-evident. I was, at best, unstable after a life of relentlesstrauma and abuse. Subconsciously I repeatedly sabotaged myself, andconsciously I couldn’t look further than two or three weeks ahead. Thus,tasks and goals that required a time investment seemed impossible. I feltforever stuck in a revolving door between bursts of ambitious effort andlong periods of defeat. However, in God’s goodness, He gave me aninquisitive mind and a desire to find meaning, so in a way, He tetheredmetoHim,protectingmefromtotal self-destruction.

Finding answers in organized religion was a repugnant thought.Tragically,thoughnotuncommon,whenIwasachild,adultsinmylifemisused the teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ to silence, control,shame,andabuseme.Theirmanipulationshadasteepcost,apricethatalmosttookmy lifeandbrokemysoul

Despite the anguish, I yearned tofind God if for no other reason thanto assert my righteous indignation and demand an answer to the questionthat plagued me, Why did you betray me when you said you loved me?The devil wanted my soul, and you handed me over to him like I wasno more important than a smooshed loaf of bread. Some loving fatheryouare.

Of course, it took years until I could articulate my question becauseIcouldn’tidentifywhatIfelt.IassumedIwasyetanotherperson

wearing fearand grief’sgreatdisguise calledanger.Ragehungaroundlike achronic injury, waiting toflare at theslightest provocation,protectiveand self-serving.

I also assumed that I was causing my turmoil because I returned tothe church of my childhood, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-DaySaints. The decision to return was agonizing. I drug myself into thebuildingeverySunday,withmymindkicking,screaming,andclawingat each doorway. In protest, I caught an emotional heel to the face andclawmarksdown myarmwithoutexception.

Nevertheless,IkeptgoingbecauseIrememberedthebeautifulpromises taught to me by my primary teachers and the genuine love Ifeltinsomeofmyfriends'homes.One family,inparticular,theSteeds,madeanunforgettableimpactonmyheart.Theywerekindandgenerous, yes, but most importantly, the Spirit of God dwelt in theirhearts. When I was in their home, I felt at peace. I could tell I wasamongst people who loved the Lord and each other. I clung to thosememories, convinced that they must have understood something myparentsdidnot. Iwantedthetypeoffamilytheyhad.

However,beforeIcouldfindpeaceandacceptgospeltruthswithanopen heart, I had to face the rampant selfishness and untreated mentalillness that wreaked havoc on almost every branch of my family tree.Did Jesus teach that women should be ashamed of being women? Thatthepinnacleoffemininitywasanexpressionlessshell,quietandacquiescing, without strongly held opinions or the right toparticipate asan equal partner in their homes and communities? Does the Spirithonestly tell people to do things thatare insane and cause untolddevastation? Learning the difference between pure and diluted doctrinewas, much of the time, suffocating. Sometimes the theology I hated wasthe same theology I desperately wanted to be true - like eternal familiesand a Savior who eagerly awaits to forgive everyone, including thosewhocausedmeharm.

Mystrugglewithmentalillnesscompoundedtheinnerbrawlbetween what I studied in the scriptures and what I felt when I walkedinto a church building. I had a haunting suspicion that someone washolding me underwater just for the fun of watching me writhe withhorror. For days and months at a time, the sickness of bipolar disordertook control until, by grace, I happened upon a period of reprieve,usually after seeking psychiatric care. Predictably, I would improve,decide I didn’t need medication, stop taking it, and pretend I was fineuntil mountingevidenceexposedmycharade.

Those periods of reprieve felt like a long hot shower after hoursworking in cold weather. Parts of my brain that had been numb andfrozen began to work with ease and agility once more. I got to feel thefreedom of life outside constant and debilitating emotional swings.Sometimes I wondered what people did with their time if they didn’tspend the bulkof their wakinghours devoted tomoodmanagement justtoremain functional.

Butallthatchaosdidnotdisqualifymefromjoy.Imetmyhusband,gave birth to my four children, found friends, and saw glimpses of God’spromisesfulfilled-alight inmywilderness.

Finally, three years ago, I decided to believe Jesus Christ and stopputtinglimitationsonHispowerbytryingtoconvinceHimthatHehadwastedHisbloodonme.Instead,Ichosetostrivetofullyalignmywillwith His, which necessitated a significant change in habits of thoughtand action. I had to learn to prioritize my relationship with Him aboveallelse,includingsleepandtheemotionalcrutchofbingeeating.

I once thought that to wait upon the Lord meant waiting my turn totalktoHim,likeakidwhostandsinlinetoseeSantaClause.Untilmyturncame,Itoldmyself,Ihadtoliveonwhateverspiritualstrengthfellin my direction. Happily, I was wrong. Jesus had already chosen mebeforeIwasborn,asevidencedbythescarsinHishands,wrists,and

feet. The one who decided the quality of our relationship was me – it’sstillme.

In April of 2021, I pondered the question, What would you do if youhad more faith? I wrote in my journal that I would finish writing mybook. And now, hereit is—anothermiracle.

Before you begin, I must tell you that this book is heavy and, at timesdark, very dark. It’s the ugly truth of the realities of abuse and mentalillness. I can’t pretend or present it otherwise. But, in the end, thoughthebattlewasexactingandexcruciating,Christtriumphsoverdarknessand evil.

I’ve narrated most of the book in real-time because I want you toexperience each moment with me as it happened instead of telling thestory with a more mature, retrospective voice. Accordingly, there aresituations and people in my account that I can now examine with moreunderstanding and compassion - but in real-time, I did not have theemotionalorintellectualcapacitytodoanythingmorethanwhatIhavewritten.

With this in mind, please remember that I am speaking from myperspective and experience alone. As soothing as it may be for me topretendtoknoweveryvariable,motivation,andintentioninthe minds

andlivesofthoseinvolvedinmyaccount,Idonot;Icannot.IcanonlywritewhatIknow.

May youfind aglimmerof Christ’s lightthrough my words,Tessa

TheJoy

What blessings have I withheld from you? The Savior asks as Ipush the limits of my anaerobic capacity. Struggling to maintain footspeedwhile experiencingself-induced oxygendeprivation usually startsaconversationwithDeity.Maybestrenuousexercisehassuchaneffectbecause it shows me the limits of sheer willpower. So, what has the Lordwithheldfromme?

Eachtimemyheelstrikesthepavement,Iflipthroughtherecordsinmy mind, searching for the answer. I open the file labeled abusivechildhood home. I see an old picture of my husband with our four kidson our favorite hike. He has a toddler on his back pulling his hair andtesting the strength of her lungs, another in his arms, protesting the useof his legs, a six-year-old t-rex running from fallen tree branch to moundof dirt, roaring, and a five-year-old elaborating on the necessity of waterand Eric’s egregious error of leaving it in the car. My husband issmiling, laughing, and promising to remember the water next time.Behindthepicture,Ifinda novel-sizedstack ofpapers stainedwiththecolor of blood. None of the words are legible. When I start to separatethepages,theyrapidly fall apartlikeancient papyrus.

Surely the mental illness folder is intact since that’s stuck with memy entire life. I anticipate the weight as if I’m about to lift a suitcasefullof50-pounddumbbells.Isteadymyarmbeforeyankingtherecordwith all my strength. The file flies in the air, nearly weightless, as Istumble backward a few steps, watching as three papers flutter to theground.Onesays‘gift,’another,‘strength.’Thethirdpageisamovingantique picture of my great-great-great-grandmother on my dad’s side.Her pioneer hands are clasped together as grateful tears run down hercheeks.The firstverseofAmazingGraceplaysinthebackground.Shelooks me in the eye, reminding me of what she sacrificed to the God herposterity forgot.

At least one record is set in stone. I look for the engraved details ofthesourceofthesmokethatwasoncemymotherandsisterrelationships.They’regone,too.Ahandcraftedsnowglobewith

rotating memories of my aunt and uncle, my brothers, and my friendssits in its place, bright and new. Happy speckles of I-love-you-with-all-my-heart swirl around the shared smiles and tears. Long talks in themorning,milesofrunningandhoursofworkouts,paintnights,playdates,andadventuroushairstylescometogetherandcreateamelodyofunbreakablebonds.

You have given me everything,’ I whisper, somewhat bewildered,‘and yet, you had to take away everything first. But they’re not the sameeverything. Sweat stings my eyes as I run towards the sun at 2:30 pmonawarmSeptemberafternoonnearSeattle,reflectingonhowmylifechanged from sorrow to joy. I don’t usually run in the afternoons, butmy extreme fitness partner is on vacation, and I spent the morningignoringchoresandto-do lists

Instead, my kids cuddled on the couch like a litter of kittens while Iread aloud. We recently startedThe Mysterious Benedict Society,and sofar, everyone’s enjoying it. The characters are young enough to getthroughtheseriesbeforetheygrowup,andBruce,myoldest,nowten-years-old, loses interest. We’ve read halfway through theHarry PotterandAnne of Green Gablesseries, and each time Bruce laments themoment that the main characters grow up and get boring. We’ll revisitboth series in a few years, maybe. Since we started homeschooling,reading has become one of our favorite ways to spend quality timetogether.

About a month after the COVID school closures, Eric and I took overthe kids’educationbecausetheirschoolhadzeroperformanceorprogressexpectations.Assuch,theassignmentswerea merereviewofwhat they had learned months ago. I realize the schools and teacherswere grappling with an emergency, but my kids needed to advance. Youmay think I sound a bit intense, but I witnessed what the lack of a qualityeducation coupled with social isolation can do to a person – theirconfidence, earning potential, and coping abilities. Earning an educationsetoneofmywingsfree,andIrefusedtowatchtheshacklesof

ignorancelockaroundmychildren’swristsastheyhadbeenlockedaround myfather’s.

As I run by two parked red motorcycles, I return to the image of thedisintegrating papyrus papers and imagine them riding on the wind ofmy dad’s apologies. He loved motorcycles; he also died on one. Enginesand redemption. I hope he found both when he died. His death was asharrowingashislife,onebigcrashwithbrokenpiecesineverydirection. How can the same man have caused me so much harm andyethelpedformtheanchorthatkeptmefrom flyingoffthehandleintonothingness? Working hard and fulfilling my obligations.Significantly,all five of his kids are well-educated and work in some form of healthor public service. Four of us have a penchant for extreme fitness habits;something about enduring and conquering the seemingly impossiblebrings us a rush of satisfaction. I used to hope that heaven kept preciseand accurate records of all of my dad’s sins because I hated him. Now,I wish only one sentence to be written under Oscar Knurre’s name inheaven’s Book of Life, He left big hearts pounding in the chests of hisfivechildren.

Speaking of big hearts, mine sighs in relief at the sight of the sign for56thStreet directly ahead, signaling the end of my eight-mile run. I haveone minute left, maybe fifty-seven seconds if I push myself. Betweenhere and there stands a broken speedometer speed sign. I might be thirty-four years old, but I pretend the sign flashes 100 miles-per-hour as I racepast.Brucesharesmyaffinityforimaginingoutstandingathleticperformances. Come to think of it, his dad does, too. Bruce oftenpretends to be a professional football player. He conducts an entireplayoff schedule in his imaginings, playing the part of all teams andplayers. Bruce keeps track of the scores, too. Usually, when he comesinside, all red-faced and sweaty, he tells me where each team stands.Bruce usuallynameshisteams afteradinosaur,shark,or reptile.Occasionally, he’ll choose a name that reflects his favorite foods, as85%ofourconversationscenteraroundfood.

When I walk up to our half gravel, half paved driveway, I can seeFiona’s long, curly main of light brown hair bouncing up and down,keeping time with the rhythm of her songs.Fiona entered the worldnine years ago with feelings she describes as biggerthan herbody anda fierce competitive drive. She watches everything I do and listens toeverything I say, mimicking my best and worst qualities. But, unlikeme,Fionaloveswithoutreservation,whetherpeopleoranimals.Currently, she’s jumping on the trampoline with our black cockapoo,Snowflake. Fiona chose Snowflake’s name as a four-year-old with asmirk on her face; they’ve been each other’s bosom friends ever since.Fionaalreadyhasplanstofindareplicaofherfaithfuldogandsmuggleitintoherdormroomwhenshegoestocollege.

Mom’s back! Mom’s back! Fiona squeals, notifying Oliver andVivian of my return. They are seven and five and still my biggest fans.Oliver has a way of melting into my side when he sits next to me, andVivian likes to hold my face between her little hands as she tries to brushher eyelashes against mine. If it weren’t for her Vivian-ness, I wouldcalltheexperienceborderlinesuffocating.

I can hear the three of them racing through our kitchen to the frontdoor.Itenseasthekidsfightforthepositionofdoor-opener,expectingsomeoneto catchadoorknobintheeye.

Thankfully, I don’t meet the screaming of injury, just three pairs ofbright blue eyes, as round as the moon, the same as their dad’s. Howwasyourrun? Didyougofast?Canwehaveicecream?Canwewatchamovie?Lookatthis!Doyouwanttoplaya game?Ican’ttellwhoistalking as six hands try to touch me at once, half of them holding theirlatestart project ornewlydiscoveredscientificfact.

Myrunwasgreat,andIwentkindoffast,butnotreallyfast.

Why? You could have run really fast if you tried. Bruce states ashe leans on his haunches at the far side of the couch and turns the pageof one of his countless dinosaur encyclopedias. I can always count onBruce to state the facts. His chronically disheveled appearance makesmesmile-wildauburnhair,asmatteringoffrecklesacrosshis cheeks,and off-center basketball shorts. He looks a lot like me, with the sameexpressive eyebrows, hooded eyes, high cheekbones, and a straightnose,buthehashisdad’slonglimbs.

You’reright.Icouldhave….

You’re yucky stinky, Mama! Vivian yells. Ewwwww! Moresqueals erupt, noses are plugged, and my children begin dropping to thefloorin fitsoflaughter.

Yes, yes, I know. I stink. Did you guys finish your homework anddo your chores while I was gone? I ask as I sit down to take off myshoesandsweatysocks. Ihatewearingshoesandsocks.

Well, I finished my homework, and I tried to help Vivian, but shekept scribbling on her page and singing about her stuffed purple pandareally loud. I couldn’t hear myself talk. Fiona explains, her handgestures telling her story. Vivian gives me a big, crooked grin as hercurly,tangledblondehairfliesinsevendifferentdirections.Sheknowsmyweakness.

Mom, I learned about whales,’ Oliver interjects, ‘killer whales aremyfavoritewhales.

Killer whales are not whales. They are dolphins, Bruce absent-mindedlycorrectsOliverasheturnsanotherpageofhisencyclopedia.

Oh. My favorite dolphin is a killer whale, Oliver says, smiling atBruce,happytodrinkfromhisbigbrother’sfountainofknowledge.

Well, you guys finish your work, and we can think about getting icecream. It’s a hot day, and Dairy Queen isn’t too far away. Vivian thatincludesyou.

But Mom, Idon’thavefeet,shesays asshe remains in herpreviouslycollapsedstateonthefauxhardwoodfloor.Dogsandfurniture scratches have long since compromised its sleek appearance.We’llreplaceitin adecade.

Come on, Vivian. Get up so we can go get ice cream! Fiona andOliverpleadinunison.

She smiles, stands in an instant, and rushes down the hall, soundinglikeher feetaremadeoftinyracquetballs.Her handstracethewallsasshe runs, a habit all of my kids have. Ishould have corrected the practicea long time ago but didn’t. Now, there are four levels of dirt, withBruce’s being the most concentrated. One time he walked into the housecovered with so much dirt that not even the insides of his ears remainedunscathed.

Iasked,Whatdidyoudo,Bruce,rollinthedirt?

Helookedatme,puzzled,andresponded,Yes,thenwalkedawaylikehewasexhaustedbymypointlessquestions.

Vivian’sconsenttocomplywithmyicecreamrequirementssignalshope to the others that my promise will be fulfilled. Yay! Yay! Yay!the kidscheer as theyscamperoff,fully intending tofinish theirhomework and chores. I know they’ll get distracted in a few minuteswithalostdollarstoretoytheyinevitablyfindbetweenthewallsand

furniture, or a picture in one of their nature books. As I lean down topick up my shoes, I notice Oliver has written his and Bruce’s nameunderneath the light switch. Ilaugh. Ithoughtwe had passed thedrawingonthewallphase.

Once I suggested to Eric that we let the kids draw on their walls tosee how their art skills improved as they grew. He did not think mysuggestion wise, citing the Sistine Chapel as proof that the worldwideallowanceforground-to-ceilingartistry wasfulfilledhundredsofyearsago.

***

Hi,Eric.How’sworkgoing?IaskEricthesamequestionwheneverIwalkintoourtenft.x12ft. bedroom.It’s mypolitewayofgettinghisattentiontotell himwhatever’sonmymind.

It’s work, he replies. Eric’s been working from home since thebeginning of COVID. He wakes up at 4:40 am, takes a shower, andopens his laptop. Our orange tabby cat inevitably purrs as he walksacross Eric’s keyboardwithhis feline arrogance. We are blessed to livein a cozy 923 square foot home with three bedrooms and no space foran office. But Eric has never complained. I don’t even know if he’snoticed. He hardly registers the overwhelming amount of noise ourchildren generate. To borrow Charles Dicken’s descriptionfromAChristmasCarol,theywerenot fortychildrenconductingthemselvesasone,buteverychildwasconductingitselflikeforty.

How was your workout this morning? Did you guys enjoy makingyourselvesmiserable?

Myextremefitnesspartnerhas returned,making mymorningscomplete."Yes,weusedournew20lb.vests,andourworkoutwas

gloriouslydifficult.Wedidtenroundsoffifteenburpees,fifteenkettlebell swings with the 35 lb. kettlebell, 45 seconds on the RogueEcho Bike, and ten ab twists with a 25 lb. bumper plate. Oh, and at thetop of each burpee, we rotated the 25 lb. bumper weight around ourhead.Youshouldtryit."

Iwillnotbedoingthat.

Suityourself.You’remissingout.Youcouldfeellikeyou’regoingto throw up andhear your heartbeatpulsing in yourfrontal lobe.Anyway,look whatIfound,Iholdupapicturefromourweddingthathad fallen from one of my journals, the Portland Temple was in fulleternalsplendorthat day.Wewerefortunateitdidn’train.

Wewerelucky,hesays.

What was your favorite part of our wedding day? I love asking himabouthisfavoritemomentsbecausehedoesnotvolunteertheinformation.

You.

Okay,that’sagiven,’Ican’tsuppressthegrinspreadingacrossmyface, ‘I mean, did you like the temple wedding ceremony, lunch atFuddruckers, or our reception the best? Remember how I forgot to trymy dress and bolero jacket on together before the wedding, and theywere different shades of white? And that the bolero was too short andhad to be awkwardly safety-pinned to my dress? Remember how myhair looked stringy at the ends, and I dyed it the wrong shade ofmahogany red a few days before? And remember how I didn’t care abit? Iwould have married youwearing apotato sack and piece of twineasmy weddingring.

Yes, Eric looks up from his computer screen with his aquamarineeyeslooking alittlemisty.

I’m still not sure why you married me,’ I confess as I curl up nextto him, slipping my arm through his as he adjusts his hands so he cankeep typing, ‘I was a bit of a moody mess. Remember how I thoughtyou were a distance runner because you are built like one, but it turnedoutthatyoudon’trunmorethanafewmilesatatime?Youtrickedmewhen we ran up the Ridgeline trail in Eugene, and you beat me to thetop even though I ran the entire way, and you didn’t. Lucky for you, Icouldn’t see you walking because the multitude of ferns obscured myvision. Plus, youhave long legs, and I have proportionately shortfemurs. Did you know I have short femurs? If my femurs were normalsize and I didn’t have a squatty neck, I would probably be 5'8insteadof 5'6. Well, almost 5'6.Remember how we walked the trail a fewweeks later, and I told you about my family, and you got confused butjustsmiledandnoddedlikemychildhoodwasnormal?"

I didn’t know what to say, and I liked listening to you talk. I stilldo.Hekissesthetopofmy headandadjustshisarmagain.

Mom! My body is starving, and the pee-ooches are annoying me.Come out now. Vivian sticks her head in our room with furrowedbrows and a slight frown, the expressions she wears when she can’tunderstand why everyone else doesn’t comply with their part in herprogram.

Hi,Vivian.EricgivesVivianawave.

Shewaves backwithamischievous grin, You’remybig,fatdaddy.

Dad.I’mDad,notdaddy.

"I