First, let me inform you that the condensed version of my story (as outlined below) will NOT have the same impact on you as reading my book, "Out of the Cocoon." That's because when I wrote my memoir I didn't want people to just read about my experience but rather become ONE with the lonely, desperate girl in the story—i.e., ME. I wanted to convey my struggles for what they were: inspiring, humorous and painful all at the same time. According to many who have read "Out of the Cocoon," my story has transformed their lives. With brutal candor, sometimes shockingly so, "Out of the Cocoon" immerses the reader deep into the mysterious and intriguing world of what I (and many others) believe is a religious cult.

So how did it all begin? Well, I experienced quite a normal, blissful childhood until the age of nine when my mother was visited one day by two Jehovah's Witnesses (JWs). At first I thought it was fun to get some attention from “the friends,” as they called themselves. Since I had grown up on a very isolated farm in rural Pennsylvania, anything new coming our way was welcomed. And they seemed so benign, so polite, so well dressed.

After a while I realized how much destruction the Watchtower organization (“Mother” to Jehovah’s Witnesses) could levy. My mom, a Methodist Sunday school teacher at the time, sat me down very soon after beginning a home "Bible" study with them and in one giant swoop told me I would have to give up all my holidays, all my friends, my birthday, and all our relatives. My life up until then revolved around play-time with my cousins from literally sunrise to sunset, so this was quite a devastating change in my young life! Having no choice to do otherwise, I obliged. For the next 9 years, I grew up without a single girlfriend and lived a life of solitary. I call it my "nine-year grounding"--despite good behavior.

From the onset, I questioned their beliefs, but still I was baptized because mom told me, "If you don't get baptized with us, you'll have to do it all by yourself later." That was an intimidating, persuasive statement to make to a ten-year-old child! I didn’t realize it at the time, but getting baptized would cost me my family later.

For the next nine years I zoned out during the five weekly meetings (day-dreamed) so I could survive the long indoctrination sessions. Sometimes I felt literally like I was pinned to an ant hill—going out of my mind. To cope with the tedium, I gnawed on my nails until they bled and did some other "interesting" things that are pretty shocking and funny. I witnessed my nephews being abused for not sitting still, a common outcome for restless JW children. I too was physically and emotionally abused.

Journaling provided some relief until my sister showed it to my mother. As soon as I realized my thoughts were being censored, I wrapped my diary in plastic and hid it in an old log in the forest. Every time I felt the need to keep my identity intact, I went into the forest to write. I still have that journal today, which holds many of my baby teeth and turbulent childhood memories.

Those years truly felt like a prison sentence to me. As a twelve-year-old I wrote a gruesome and disturbing story for school called "All Alone in the World," which thirty years later has become Chapter 1 of “Out of the Cocoon.” Fortunately, I never intended to go through with my horrific fantasy, but purging my negatives feelings did ease my pain of entrapment. My own common sense and perhaps the lifelines I cast kept the situation in my life from becoming dangerously volatile.

Independent thought wasn’t permitted. We were all cookie-cutter clones and expected to march like soldiers in perfect alignment. To say that the oppression that I experienced was ‘stifling’ would be a monumental understatement. The only way I can describe what I went though is, imagine someone holding a pillow over your face for nine years as you fought to breathe. Imagine them letting in only enough air to keep you barely alive.

Every year became a countdown for me--7 years until I'm out, 5 years until I'm out, etc. As a teen, I threw a lifeline out to a relative by creating an underground network with my aunt in Colorado. Mother forbid me to communicate with her own sister, but I knew if I could gain a sympathetic ear, my aunt might possibly help me someday. So for several years my aunt and I secretly corresponded via a schoolmate. My aunt would send her letter to my schoolmate's house, my schoolmate would bring the letter to school so I could reply, then mail my letter back to my aunt. None of my aunt's letters ever went home with me lest our secret be discovered. My aunt became my only real link to the outside world and my only adult voice of reason.

Meanwhile, I did everything the Watchtower asked of me, including preaching door to door to those in “false religion” for up to 100 hours per month. In many respects, I felt like the Barbie dolls I had played with—molded, manipulated and fake. I was the perfect 'plastic' JW teen, but this was my strategy. I knew I had to quietly put in my time while scheming and plotting my escape. Outside, I was one person. Inside, I tried to hold onto the real person who was eroding away. Like a butterfly, I understood metamorphosis and used that to my advantage.