Written by: Chelsea Kwon
Growing up in a strict, repressed Korean church, I was given a pretty strict rulebook for what was considered right and wrong. From an early age, I picked up on what was labeled “sinful”—from the way I acted and who I spent time with, right down to my thoughts and feelings. Over time, I started to feel guilty or ashamed anytime I didn’t fit into those narrow lines, and it made me question, hide, and repress a lot of parts of myself just due to fear of going to Hell. That, in combination with my traumatic upbringing, laid the blueprint for how I viewed morality and shaped the way I saw and treated myself.
I’ve always been an observant person, easily noticing what’s really going on around me, most likely because I had ADHD, overstimulated by my environment and unable to pay attention to what was going on in front of me. I watched the women in church constantly gossip and bring each other down, brag about their kids getting into Harvard and Yale, as if they were competing with each other and peacocking their latest designer bags and cars—every Sunday felt less like a place of love and worship and more like a runway for status and fake backhanded comments. The whole atmosphere felt so judgmental and fake, and it’s honestly where I started to feel disconnected and conflicted about my Korean identity. From that point going forward, I found myself going out of my way to avoid becoming like the Korean women I saw growing up. I witnessed so many people doing unspeakable acts yet behaving at church as if being a Christian was only on Sundays, while they could sin during the week. I was molested multiple times as a young girl and growing teenager by a disgusting older Sunday school teacher and gaslit by my mom, while it continued to happen—until I refused to leave my room one day. On top of that, I experienced unbelievable hypocrisy, especially from my mom—she would psychologically, emotionally, and even physically abuse me at home behind closed doors, but then put on a loving façade, acting kindly in front of everyone at church. The girls I was friends with were incredibly insecure and toxic, and I constantly found myself wondering if they genuinely liked me or even cared about me and if this was what real friendship was supposed to feel like.
Growing up in that environment, I internalized the message that appearances mattered more than truth, which only deepened my shame. Every intrusive or “deviant” thought I had filled me with overwhelming shame, making me believe I was destined for hell, just for the thoughts that crossed my mind, not even for me acting on those thoughts. The first time I explored my own body, I stopped immediately, convincing myself that I was going to hell—the guilt and shame consumed me. The first university I went to was at Texas Woman’s University in Denton. I’ve never felt more horny in my life, almost out of control, as if my hormones were in overdrive and desperate to break free from their chains. In my 2nd semester, at the age of 19, I was reached out to on campus by a group of girls from the non-denominational Church of Christ. I ended up staying in that church for 5 years because I didn’t want to go to hell, leaving at the age of 24, after realizing this was not who I was, who I wanted to be, and what I wanted to me for my life.
Here are some deeply unsettling things I noticed and experienced in the ICOC or International Church of Christ—experiences that honestly gave off major cult vibes—mkay, not like the horror cult vibes in American Horror Story or M Night Shyamalan’s The Servant—but still exhibiting all the red flags that scream, “GTFO you’re in a cult”:
- The ICOC church would have bible talks every Wednesday, and we would reach out on college campuses almost like Mormons, except without bikes and suits, inviting people out to bible talk or church in the hopes to converting them to believers. We would also have church every Sunday, and if you missed either of them, you could count on your phone blowing up with messages checking in on you.
- I remember one time, a brother and I skipped Wednesday Bible talk to see The Generationals in Deep Ellum, Dallas (which was such an incredible show and experience, by the way), and the whole night our phones blew up with messages from church members asking where we were and why we missed Bible talk.
- Some of the girls were incredibly cruel to both me and another drop-dead, gorgeous, stunning girl. I couldn’t understand why they treated us that way, even going so far as to call her fake. Neither of us had done anything to warrant that treatment, and looking back, I realize their behavior was rooted in jealousy and insecurity.
- The ICOC church had this thing they would do called “encouragement dates,” where the “brothers” or guys would take the “sisters” or girls out on dates—not necessarily as a romantic gesture, but supposedly to uplift and encourage them, whether as friends or as potential romantic interests. These encouragement dates seemed cute at first, but I soon realized they had cult-like undertones—we were only allowed to date within the ICOC church. If I dated a Christian from another church, I would be kicked out entirely from the ICOC church.
- I witnessed two girls who had sex and lost their virginity get treated in a really unsettling way by the church. They were completely cut off—no one was allowed to talk, text, or check in on them until they repented, leaving them deeply isolated and depressed. It felt less like guidance and more like punishment and public shaming. And when they did return to the church after repenting, the gossip and judgment they faced branded them with a scarlet letter, making it nearly impossible for them to feel accepted or supported.
- Everyone in this church came across as bland and lifeless, with hardly any individuality or spark, completely void of any fun or personality. Not to sound judgmental at all, but I found so many of these people so incredibly boring and afraid to live and experience life, the complete opposite of who I was.
- So many of the people in this church were miserable and just rude to each other in how they spoke to and treated me and each other
- I observed a couple in the ICOC Denton region where the boyfriend regularly spoke to his girlfriend so rude and aggressively, bordering on abusive, and once I even noticed bruises on her arm. I saw a lot of toxic relationships like this and couples who settled for each other instead of braving it out single. A lot of members would just rush into getting married just to have sex instead of gauging whether they were compatible or even right for one another.
- Whenever we invited new visitors to Sunday service—especially those who were openly gay, dressed provocatively, or were cursing out loud—I could see the judgmental ass stares flickering across so many faces in the congregation. That was a huge wake-up call for me, as someone who’s bisexual and has the mouth of a sailor. It became clear I didn’t belong in a place that condemned people for their sexuality, and I knew then it was time for me to walk away.
I was caught in a constant battle with myself. I had the sex drive of a demon, a mouth like a sailor, yet was repressing myself to follow these rules I was brainwashed into as a kid in an oppressive Korean church. I never truly believed in the church’s rules, especially after witnessing and experiencing so many actions there that felt nothing like real love or compassion. Part of me longed to play it safe, to be the good girl who went above and beyond, followed all the rules, and carried herself with grace and class, but let’s be honest…that’s not me, at least not completely. There was another untamed side of me—a feral, dark energy that roared within me, begging to be released, to misbehave, rebel, break free from expectations, be unapologetically messy, to taste the thrill of rebellion and let my darker impulses run wild. My shadow side craved autonomy to let my deepest, most primal impulses take over and experience life on the edge, far outside the boundaries of what was deemed “good.”I felt like I was always caught in a tug-of-war, forced to pick sides between innocence and temptation, craving both the validation and redemption of being “good” and the intoxicating freedom of being “bad.” I craved both acceptance and autonomy, safety and wildness, always feeling like I had to choose—but never able to truly let go of either side completely until one day I decided to leave and step outside the suffocating and confining rules of the church and embark on the journey of discovering who I really am, beyond what I was taught to repress or fear. I finally allowed myself to plunge headfirst and give in to every desire and impulse I’d ever tried to deny—and if embracing my desires makes me a sinner, then I’ll gladly keep dancing in that delicious rebellion. Flirting with danger felt like an ecstasy-fueled taste of heaven. A wild and chaotic nine years later, I finally feel grounded in who I am, confident and secure in my own identity. I’m still not sure if I believe in heaven or hell, or if those places even exist—but one thing I do know for sure: if there’s an underworld, they’re definitely listening to techno down there.
Stay feral and free,
Your Feral Techno Demoness