Imagine all the men you’ve ever given yourself to…

a deleted purity culture excerpt from my book "No One Loves An Angry Woman"

Firstly, thank you for the outpouring of support and solidarity in response to this reel about the pain of writing about purity culture. Most days when I’m writing No One Loves An Angry Woman I cry. Sometimes it’s a few quiet tears, sometimes I have to take a “breakdown break” and full body sob. It helps more than you know to hear that this book matters to you. It makes the hard work worth it. 

So today I’m sharing a deleted scene from No One Loves An Angry Woman, because there were more purity culture stories than this current chapter was able to contain. This is one I have thought about countless times, because it fell outside of the objectification narrative, and made me think deeply about the power of shared experiences.

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Imagine all the men you’ve ever given yourself to…

I sat on my top bunk during cabin time, nestled in my sleeping bag as the fog seeped beneath the window flap. My bible camp counselor, a girl barely out of high school herself, guided us through the familiar topic of purity. The discussion always came back to our future husbands, and how we could honor or dishonor them with our actions.

“I’ve already given away parts of myself that should have belonged to my husband,” my camp counselor said. Her voice was steeped with remorse over this imaginary man she had unwittingly betrayed. 

I leaned over the bunk, eager to hear what line she had transgressed. Purity culture went beyond virginity: our thoughts needed to be clean, our bodies covered, we must be untouched in every way. I doubted her sins were as serious as mine, but I longed for a moment of solidarity. Of recognition. I wanted reassurance that there was a path back to the faith I was rapidly losing. That there was a way to become unbroken after my body had been sullied. 

“I was in a relationship with a man I thought I was going to marry. And while we didn’t move into physical intimacy, I shared so much of myself with him. I told him I loved him, words that should have only been for my husband. We had deep conversations that should have been reserved for marriage.”

Photo by Chiến Phạm on Unsplash

I laid back down and stared at the wood-beamed ceiling. I had never felt farther from God. 

“So often we think only of our physical bodies, but our spiritual bodies have value too. Every time you get close to a boyfriend or even just a guy who is a friend, and you share your truest self and feelings, you give pieces of yourself away. And you take that intimacy away from your future husband, because it’s no longer special. If you’ve shared yourself with someone else, you can’t ask for the intimacy of that relationship back.”

We so rarely talked about the value of our feelings, our experiences. Our bodies were more often reduced to metaphorical objects to be used. The piece of gum that becomes chewed and flavorless after a single use. The white shoes that become dirty and worn and unwanted. 

“Imagine all the men you’ve ever given pieces of yourself to, standing in line behind you at the altar. Imagine telling your future husband something that should be sacred, knowing that you’ve already shared that with one, two, three other men. Do you really want to take that intimacy from your future marriage?”

The notion that my words were sacred made me want to weep in recognition. But that I should never share them outside of marriage made me want to scream in rage. I knew, even then, that I did not want a single, isolated relationship of depth. I wanted to feel my connection to all of humanity. I wanted to know that I was not alone. 

I thought of all the late nights I had spent with friends bonding over the dark moments of our shame, the ecstasy of falling into what felt like love, the conversations that had made me feel known. I could not make myself feel chastised or wrong for wanting to share the intimacy of my soul, of my spiritual body. It felt like what I was made to do. 

It is what I’m doing now. 

I like to imagine renewing my vows in this way I was warned against—the long line of those who have shared in the holy communion of my deepest self standing behind me at the altar. I imagine the women and men I have cried amongst carrying those precious pieces of myself I have shared, like jewels in their cupped palms. I would not be ashamed for the procession to stretch beyond my view. 

What a gift to be known by so many. How lonely to live any way else.