EXJW Convention Speech

Because my parents were indoctrinated, propagandized, and converted I was isolated from my family, inundated with terror, and given tasks befitting a "good-for-nothing slave." Shame, guilt, dread, boredom, obligation, and fear coalesce into a blur. I don't remember much of my childhood — maybe there isn't much worth remembering. I was taught hatred and told it was love within a mundane, horrifying, déjà vu until I learned my father was sick.

As he withered Jehovah's Witnesses filled our home — cooking, cleaning, and supporting us. When his doctors recommended a blood transfusion a liaison committee "supported" us. He remained loyal to "Jehovah" and died on May 18th, 1996. I was 13. Before his funeral a bethelite crooned a soulful rendition of a Kingdom Melody. During his funeral Brother WIlkins pontificated about my father's hope and how he'd want to see us in paradise. Afterward I carried his casket alongside his siblings. I realized I wasn't bearing any of the weight — a reflection of my powerlessness. I had wasted time praying while my father wasted. Less than four months after his martyrdom I was baptized. I once believed the elders who convinced my father to martyr himself deserved biblical retribution — "eye for eye" and "tooth for tooth" but "an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind." I wrote my first poems about him. His name was Rex Allen Losh.

My mother began treating me more like a roommate than a child — complaining I hadn't taken the lead spiritually. When I admitted I was depressed she recommended personal study, service, prayer, meeting attendance, and a study with a "spiritually mature brother." When that failed I was sent to therapy, diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder, and prescribed anti-depressants which exacerbated thoughts of self-harm and suicide. My mother didn't understand why I couldn't "get over" my father," because "Jehovah knew what I felt," and her loss "was greater than mine." She was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was 16. She had a masectomy, a follow up surgery, and I began working to help pay bills — I was also arrested for hitting mailboxes with a baseball bat after book-study with my friend Logan. We met with some of the people we had vandalized as part of a rehabilitation program — everyone went around the room and talked about that day and how it had affected them. An old couple admitted they worried we would hurt them but they hugged us and told us we were good boys that made a mistake. The elders interrogated us, publicly reproved us, and told us if anyone rejected the "truth" because of our vandalism we would be "blood-guilty." I had a study with an elder who wanted me to memorize the Bible books forward and backward. My mother had a hysterectomy which forced her into early menopause, she had her thyroid removed, and she had several other small procedures. By 18 I weighed 300 pounds, I was suicidal, and the elders didn't believe me — they said I "wanted attention." They were "gifts in men" so I perceived this as a personal rejection from Jehovah. I asked my mother how these "glorious ones" could be so dismissive — she "didn't know." We moved and switched congregations — my mother was accepted but I was not. When people would ignore me, mock me, or let the Kingdom Hall door slam in my face the elders would tell me I was imagining things, that I needed to focus on my "spirituality," or they'd counsel me about some "conscience matter."

Barbara Anderson and I

When I showed my mother some of the things I'd written she told me to throw them away. I couldn't — they felt prescient. I found comfort in books, films, music, and art. I began seeking like-minded people online and sharing my writing. I met a girl who complimented my writing for being "succinct." I wrote her emo love poems, called her my "muse," and I wanted to meet her. She was a day ahead of me, on the other side of the world, so I called her "the girl from the future." My mother coerced me into cutting off the only person in my life that was good to me. I overdosed on sleeping pills a few weeks later when I turned 21. I screamed involuntarily as I died, I was discovered, and in a coma for 37 hours. It was one suicide attempt out of many. I began making abstract art. At 23 I was disfellowshipped and shunned for 18 months. I performed stand-up comedy during that time. After my reinstatement I decided to switch congregations. I was living exactly as Jehovah wanted. After knocking on our first door Brother Leach asked "Aren't you the kid with really bad mental problems?" Depression defined me. I don't believe you can go through the stages of grief in an environment that expects you to be a walking, talking advertisement, instructs you to "be quick to put away anger," and to be happy because you serve the "happy" god. I was disenfranchised from my anger which kept me languishing in grief. Over the next ten years I created art, wrote, and got tattoos. The summer I was 30 two men I grew up with killed themselves. Nobody seemed to care and I knew it would be the same with me. I began removing my contacts before meetings so I couldn't see the "brothers" and "sisters."

When I was 33 a co-worker began attending meetings, studying, and going out in service. The congregation accepted her and before long the elders forbid me from speaking to her except after meetings. I moved in with her, I was disfellowshipped a second time, and we eloped. We had agreed to tell her parents that night but she reneged. They would accidentally find out a year and a half later but not from her. I told her I needed her to tell them. Every day that she didn't I loved her less until I didn't love her at all. Without friends, family, or support I decided to get drunk every day. The night my son was born he was flown by helicopter to a children's hospital. His mother was recovering and I was distraught so my mother volunteered to drive me. On the drive she tried to coerce me into calling a liaison committee to "support" me. I called my wife to discuss it and she hung up on me. After two and a half years I was reinstated and I kept drinking.

During Covid I began disassociating, waking up drunk instead of hungover, and perusing the exjw Reddit page. I threatened an elder when he lied to me and I was banned from the Kingdom Hall because I refused to apologize. I woke up incarcerated. I found a Bible and I wondered if it was a sign from Jehovah. I wrote my mother letters apologizing and asking for help. She filed a no contact order against me. After 77 days I signed a plea bargain. I knew I couldn't live at my former home — I didn't know my car had been repossessed. I crawled under a bridge to see where I could live — where bugs might bite me the least. I was homeless, on probation, and I had $60. I had never felt fear that intense. I considered drinking but I'd swore I'd never drink again. I moved into a halfway house. My wife divorced me, I had over 30K in debt, and my credit was destroyed. I kept my clothing, my laptop, and shared custody of my son.

I wondered if my mind had been warped by demonic influences or if I had been in a cult? I needed to deconstruct. 12-steppers recommended personal study, service, prayer, meeting attendance, and a sponsor. I read the Big Book of Alcoholic's Anonymous three times. When I asked questions I was told to "stop questioning," to "submit," and that I "thought too much." I was interested in accountability, self-reliance, and personal development. AA told me I had "a disease that told me it wasn't a disease," that my disease was "in the parking lot doing push-ups," and that my "best-thinking brought me to AA." This new ideology felt familiar — it felt like a lateral move. I was called a "dry drunk," "terminally unique," and my sobriety was negated because they were "real alcoholics." When I was forced into prayer circles I said the satanic amen. Nema. When people told me I needed a higher power I told them I had narrowed it down to Santa Claus and Satan — that I felt like the prettiest girl at the prom. When I got a job at a bar I was asked "are you planning a relapse?"

Romy Miquell Maple & I

In therapy I realized I'd been circumscribed and contrived by Jehovah's Witnesses. I learned I'd been conditioned to accept abuse — that mistreatment was comfortable. I was diagnosed with C-PTSD and told I had religious trauma. I realized that I must embrace discomfort. As I reread things I'd written I remembered who I had been — who I had repressed. I decided I would write a book, for multiple reasons: I'd wanted to publish a book since I was a teenager, I was estranged from my son and wanted him to know about me, I wanted to expose Jehovah's Witnesses, and I owed an apology. Publishing a book was the biggest amends I could think of. I didn't know how it would happen — only that it would. I had a literary agent who ghosted me. I was told to "stay in my lane" and that writing a book would only "accomplish so much." I knew it would change me — I just didn't know how. I figured I could kill myself anytime. This was a rare opportunity. At my job I met people who helped me with my goal and asked nothing in return: some bought my memoir, helped me take photographs to promote my writing, signed waivers, and showed me kindness. Even more revelatory I wasn't judged for being homophobic, transphobic, or racist in my past. Some even call me a "legend." I hired an exjw to paint the cover of my memoir, I interviewed lawyers and editors before hiring people to collaborate with, I titled my memoir a Jehovah's Witness shaming term and published Mentally Diseased on my 40th birthday. It felt like I grabbed reality and bent it to my will. I had written a book so I could die — I began feeling more alive than I ever had.

Someone messaged me to tell me my story had convinced them to stop drinking. Another person messaged me to say it was like I had written down the thoughts in their head. I've had great conversations with amazing people from all over the world. Someone sent me a picture of Mentally Diseased behind a JW.org sign. People complimented my writing style and told me they'd like to read more. Six months later I used my remaining poetry to publish my second book — Gangrenous Speeches. Six months after that I repurposed my trauma, embraced my love for the macabre, and published my first work of fiction. Despicable is a violent allegory for challenging a high-control group. It was a step toward the work I wanted to do. I built a website. I was a part of the Witness Underground crowdfund and was given an iMdb producer credit. I published Sisu: Desolation before Motivation on the anniversary of my father's death — a 19 page eBook about my deconstruction and creative process. I've reconnected with the "girl from the future." We message, talk on the phone, video chat and plan to meet. I'm writing her an ode — a horror romance about twin flames titled 11:11. I've written my son a children's book about critical thought and skepticism — another exjw is going to illustrate The Boy Who Loved a Monster. I'm also writing a horror story about credulity warping satire into a holy text called The Book of Micah. I'm speaking here. I'm excited to announce my trilogy is now available as a single book with a new title: The Apostasy Trilogy: Sedition Against Jehovah's Witnesses. It's now available on www.micahallenlosh.com.

My father is a martyr, my mother is a cultist, Watchtower made me suicidal for decades, kept me in a loveless marriage, estranged me from my son, and left me to die in the streets. I spent 37 years as a Jehovah's Witness. I used to wonder if I existed in the feebly firing synapses of my comatose mind. It can't have been any other way. I'm an author — the thing I wanted to be most. My son isn't being raised religious and I'm free to love him for whomever he becomes. All of that hell was worth it. Mentally Diseased is my origin story. I wrote this the day I realized it wasn't the "truth."

An oversimplification redundant with truth, certainly this is the fulcrum of salvation.

We are not a wretched brethren. No coven meant to covet sins.

Brothers and Sisters, alleged equality, Sisters and Brothers, elevated laity.

Huddle and circle as they circle the wagons.

The prize of perfection flaking away in deafening whispers passed through clenched teeth.

I am a vessel, too stained to be vestal. No matter the path it’s banked by a devil.

Double back from an acrimonious path. Bleached with contrition. Fuck the past.

Obedience is obsequious. Mistaken masochism.

Know the horsemen are closing in. Witch hunts tarnish those judging sin.

Evil is abstract and long-term victimization can lead to defending the wicked.

These things are sick, I am sickened.

I am awake.

Hail yourself.! My name is Micah Allen Losh. I'm so grateful to be here. Thank you!