Memoir

Mike Tessier

Bad Child

My parents were members of a religious cult called the Children Of God. Growing up, my father was a strict disciplinarian and believed that when I was born I had a built-in will to do bad. It was a held belief in the COG that restless, stubborn babies who cried more often than others were displaying early signs of an independent nature. This was seen as a potential threat to the integrity of the group’s mission of saving souls from eternal damnation. Original sin had to be forcefully driven out.

Punishment and Fear

I was punished often. After my infancy, my father made boasts that I had to be hit a lot while still in the crib because I was hard to keep still and silent like a good baby. I lived in constant fear of being struck, never knowing when it would come because almost any kind of behavior warranted punishment. As a kid I naturally fought and argued with my siblings, laughed and ran around the house when I played. This disturbed my father’s incessant need for silence. As a result, I received frequent spankings and spent many afternoons kneeling upright in a corner of the living room. At dinner time, if my siblings or I raised our voices above a whisper we could end up with our nose pressed into the corner of a room while the rest of the family ate.

Missionaries for God

My parents considered themselves missionaries for God who were charged with the task of amassing an army of true Christian soldiers to stand up against the coming of The Antichrist. David Berg, the leader of the COG and self-proclaimed “prophet of the end time” believed that the Battle Of Armageddon would begin in 1993. Procreation for the COG was a military strategy which would allow us to propagate the army needed to triumph over Satan’s otherwise more formidable forces.

Sex Cult

In the COG, Christian devotion and missionary work were secondary to a rigorous sexual education. Sex was seen as a weapon against evil as well as the best way to serve God and receive his favor. It is what elevated the COG to the self-ascribed status of “true believers” versus the repressed and false Christian establishment. Sex was the guiding principle in all things. It was imposed on everything in my environment. It was a presiding influence over how I conducted myself. It permeated my thoughts daily.

Sex Education

As part of my sexual education, I was paired with children my age and older and expected to perform sex. Direction often came in the manner of hints and suggestions but at other times more direct coaxing would be implemented. It was commonplace for an adult, not always my own parent, to tell me which girl had her eye on me and suggest I visit her bed later at night. It was also common practice for mothers to educate their sons about procreation by performing masturbatory sex on them as early as infancy. My exposure to these practices began as early as I can remember. There were graphic illustrations in our scripture books, “The Mo Letters”, of naked children together or with adults or a self satisfied looking man with a lion’s head walking or lying in meadows adorned with flowers and sparkling brooks. The lion-man we knew to be Grandpa Mo, our leader and patriarch.

A Mother’s Lesson

Around the age of seven I was being put to bed by my mother. She was in bed with me and had finished telling me a bedtime story when she unexpectedly began asking if I knew what french kissing was and if I knew how to do it. Repelled and embarrassed, I defensively assured her that I did. I wanted her to drop the subject as quickly as possible. She then asked if I wanted to practice with her. I was used to the masturbation by this point, but it was disturbingly off-putting to imagine partaking in this new lesson she proposed. Repulsed, I responded with a knee-jerk comment about her vagina. As a result, I was heavily reprimanded and struck. She made me feel like I was a disgusting pervert.

Transient living

We lived as nomads moving from one COG commune to another, several large families occupying a single house in a low income neighbourhood. I sometimes shared triple bunk beds stacked to the ceiling with children of other families, two to a bed, to save space. We never stayed very long in one place, moving from city to city after a year or even less. In the mid 80’s we, a family of seven, left for Mexico in a beat-up station wagon. We had no money whatsoever and my parents took to asking restaurant and motel managers for free food and lodging. My siblings and I would sometimes go without dinner and told by our parents to suck it up. As payment for a fast food manager’s generosity, our parents would have my siblings and I stand up after a meal and sing songs about Jesus for unsuspecting Burger King patrons. These were awkward and embarrassing experiences for me.

Fitting In

Developing a sense of social belonging was something that never occurred for me. The outside world wasn’t the COG’s concern so any connection to outsiders was unimportant and frowned upon. I had to change schools regularly which made trying to settle in useless – I’d just be uprooted again anyway. When I was dropped into a class part way through a term, social ties would already be established and other kids found me an easy mark for antagonism. I found no acceptance at school, so I kept to myself. At home, I lived chaotically with clusters of other kids under the constant threat of punishment from my own parents and others. After a difficult day at school home offered no relief. Without a way to connect to others and no outlet for self-expression, I adopted an introverted personality. I retreated to and existed only in my own mind.

Systemites

Fitting in was made more problematic by the fact that everyone, including other Christians, were supposedly servants of “the system” and could not be trusted. Regular people were unwitting participants in a diabolical fallacy. Politics was a machination of Satan, money was evil and corrupting, flies, sugar, Cabbage Patch dolls, Transformers and spiked hair were “of-the-devil”. Cartoons depicting violence were poisoning, music was prohibited and rock bands were emissaries of Satan. Naturally, I adopted a holier-than-thou attitude since I believed I was going to heaven and my peers at school were condemned to a life of purgatory before being judged by God. I was permitted to interact with others, and in fact it was necessary to keep up appearances, but I was never to buy into any of their beliefs. It didn’t help my attempts at making friends when I told other kids they were going to hell because they played with G.I. Joes.

Hurt and Rescue

As the eldest of my siblings and I were approaching an age where we would begin questioning the environment we lived in, my parents left the COG. They began to speak of the cult as a terrible misfortune, a trap they had unwittingly wandered into. Their minds had been seized and their regrettable actions had been directed by the dominating influence of David Berg. We were lucky that they were able to see through the deception and free us from persecution. We were saved.

Artistic Side

In my early years I developed a passion for drawing and in doing so, discovered a new way to express myself. At school I finally found a way that I could engage with others. I felt validation from peers and superiors alike. I thought things might follow suit at home but I was wrong. The pride I felt from winning awards at school and city competitions was diminished when met with my father’s lack of enthusiasm. Instead of the acknowledgement I hoped for, I was cautioned to choose a more respectable discipline like painting, and stick to a single medium. My father discouraged my exploration of differing mediums because the world wouldn’t accept a multidisciplinary artist. To be a real artist, I had to choose one medium and stick to it for the rest of my life otherwise I would only be a jack of all trades. This became a source of internal conflict and much anxiety for years to come. My father’s acceptance eluded me and I wondered how I would ever make good in his eyes.

Real Artist?

Despite continuing to search for my father’s approval, my approach to art was, according to him, either juvenile or lacking refinement. I was sure I finally created worthy works of art in a series of short films I produced in my twenties. On the evening of a public presentation of the films, I was brave enough to ask my father, who showed up for the screening but was unresponsive afterwards, what he thought about my work. His answer was that it was preliminary. With this one statement he dismissed my art, dismissed my pain and dismissed my very being. He once again denied me the opportunity to feel acceptance, to gain confidence and grow. It was the last time I spoke to my father.

God’s Man

My father believed he was gifted with divine insight and was at the brink of enlightenment. He told me one day that while he was walking home he looked up and saw the clouds part and a holy light reveal itself in the sky. It was God’s message to him that he would soon be accepted into heaven for eternity. On another similar occasion he disclosed with an air of urgency that he dreamt he was a soldier in a war and had his legs blown off in an explosion. He said it was a vision from God telling him he had paid his dues in past lives and that this was his soul’s last incarnation on Earth.

Loving Father

Over the course of my childhood and throughout adolescence, my father had a favourite term of endearment for me. In a paternal manner that felt more like belittlement than affection he’d say “Mikey and his unresolved Oedipus complex” which, by definition means a young child’s subconscious sexual desire for the parent of the opposite sex. In my family, my father was the ruling authority. This moniker became who I was to my family and who I was to the world. My sexual abuse and resulting trauma did not originate from being a child in a sex cult. It came from me, not the abuse I suffered from my mother and not him. It was embedded in my being.

Solace and Escape

In the midst of the torment I lived in, I did find solace. Art became my way of connecting with people. I was warmed by the appreciation for my creativity that I received from teachers and peers and this continued to be a source of relief from pain. It helped me build self-confidence throughout developmental years. I also found a means of escape through music. At age six I heard the song Eye Of The Tiger by Survivor on the radio and it was like a lightning bolt struck me. It was a physical sensation of almost unbearable excitement. The music enhanced the message of determination I sensed from the vocals. Words like fighting, freedom and survival struck a nerve. It was as if that voice on the fucking radio was speaking directly to me telling me not to give up on myself. It inspired me and gave me hope. At age 12 when I was finally permitted to make some of my own life choices, I discovered heavy metal and had found my niche. The music reassured me that my pain was shared - I wasn’t alone. It defied the restrictions that had governed my life and celebrated the very things I was taught to shun. It was rebellious, bold and unapologetic. The flamboyance and attitude of Mötley Crüe was instantaneously appealing, as was their defiance of authority and religion. It was apparent to me that the triple-six, pentagram and inverted cross littering their music videos was light-hearted but was also meant to defy religion and challenge authority in a celebratory way. Satan wasn’t something that real supernatural or evil power was attributed to. What was once a real entity and threat that I was taught to fear became a symbol of defiance against the propaganda I was force fed and the abuses I suffered. Furthermore, it symbolized freedom of choice.

Sabotage

I still desired the approval of my father and continued to seek it out. I bought into my parents’ explanation of how they were able to subject us to the things they did - that they were victims of a brainwashing cult forced to act against their will. And so, I excused them. I found strength and support from the outlets I established. Music was my lifeline, art was my way of connecting to the world. Friends became more important than my parents and a better authority on the quality of my art. I fostered these outlets and found a way to live my life. I always felt I’d grow up to be a successful artist, a conviction that never left me. I enjoyed my life of drawing, painting and dancing. I was expressing myself and receiving validation from people I loved. But then something happened. In my twenties I started growing impatient and aggravated when creating art. I was convinced I wouldn’t meet my potential working in whatever current medium I was taking on. With each project, I would grow bored and restless and eventually give up. It became the tendency to drop one medium for another until I abandoned pursuing artistic success altogether. Alternatively, I got involved in music event planning and utilized it as a platform for creative self-expression. However, it became apparent that the new lifestyle I adopted was leading me to an emotional and creative dead end. I couldn’t fight the feeling that I had veered from my path and was neglecting my responsibility to continue to challenge myself artistically. On the last evening I spoke to my father, I expressed to him that whether or not he was being honest about my art being preliminary, it was hurtful and no way for a parent to foster a son’s self-esteem. He cowered away from me and left my apartment without responding. He diminished in front of my eyes. I came to realize, after that last interaction, I would never receive his approval. A picture started forming in my mind of how horrible my parents had been to me my entire life. I started seeing through the illusion my parents upheld. The shaming I got from my mother that night in bed inflicted me with guilt that had burdened me my whole life. My father’s mock affection in his accusal of my desire to have sex with my mother reinforced my guilt and the low self-opinion I had long since held. I realized that the resilience I displayed and the happiness I derived from my creativity reminded my father of his failures and he resented me for it. Without betraying the guise of loving father, he attempted to extinguish my will to express myself and be creative. The sexual, physical and psychological abuses I endured and the refusal of my parents to take responsibility for their actions was unforgivable.

New Beginning

Reconciliation as well as the success I felt I deserved began to seem impossible while my parents were still a part of my life. I realized that it was always my father’s presence in my subconscious steering me to sabotage my artistic endeavors. I was sick of the spiritual endurance test that each new attempt at artistic creation presented. My fate was to fail and I needed to destroy the legacy that I was unconsciously carrying out. I had no choice but to sever the connection to my parents completely. After a long and arduous period of purging my parents from my being, I reached a point where I could finally create art without inhibition and ultimately live the life that I wanted and chose. For me, Up The Antichrist is my symbol of that victory as well as the manifestation of my life-long fight for individuality and artistic and personal freedom.