Adam Fish: This Is Me. I'm Here. I'm Not Going Anywhere.

I was born and raised where I spent most of my days. A normal family setup—two parents, two older brothers, and one younger sister—but I always felt like the odd one out.

When I was six years old, my dad died. I remember seeing him one last time—in a box in our lounge. It felt like the very next week I was sitting in a Kingdom Hall with my aunt and a new circle of people, being told I’d see my dad very soon. "Armageddon is just around the corner," they said. "He'll be resurrected very soon."

Then we moved to another congregation, and shortly after, my mum remarried. We moved again, and for the first time, we each had our own room. I knew I was different. I couldn't read well. I was the "dunce" in school. Dyslexia—I couldn't even spell the word. But still, "Don't worry," they said, "Armageddon will be here very soon."

Everyone around me believed—my mum, my siblings. I just believed because they did. At 18, I got baptised. I felt nothing special. No dove from heaven. Just more pressure: "Do more. Armageddon is near." 

In my naive teenage head, I soon found myself in front of a judicial committee. If you've been there, you know. Then I met a woman I believed was the most beautiful in the world. We didn’t marry in a Kingdom Hall, so again, more pressure. Another judicial. It was wrecking the marriage before it even began. I was indoctrinated. I didn’t think I’d ever see my dad again if I messed up. I still felt different. Maybe we’re all different, or maybe some of us carry it differently—ADHD, dyslexia. We look normal, but we’re not seen. We were arguing all the time. In that world, you stay together no matter the cost. The only way out was to do something wrong. So I did. The stupidest thing. I’m sorry.

We reconciled. But I wasn’t free. You can't move on, can't date, can't even look at someone else. Meanwhile, I was back living with my mum in one of her large houses. A girl was renting the bottom flat —a beautiful Witness from Africa. It didn’t take long. Another mistake. Another judicial. Third time? Fourth? By now, it was easier. Tell three men in a room what you did. Confess. Repeat. They act surprised, as if they don’t know what happens when two people connect.

I went back to my wife briefly. Then back out again. No privileges. No freedom. I ended up in a congregation full of divorced members. I was the odd one again — overweight, struggling. I found another woman. She seemed kind until we married. Then it all changed. Manipulative. Controlling. It nearly drove me to suicide. I couldn’t find a way to end it. But something—God, the universe, whatever it is—kept me going. I kept returning to that toxic marriage, thinking maybe it was me. We had police involved. Arguments. I was arrested. I was told by elders: "If it happens again, say no comment. Jehovah is on your side."

I felt hopeless. My hobbies—motorbiking, skydiving—were criticised. Reckless, they said. But those moments of adrenaline were the only times I felt alive.

Eventually, I was done for domestic violence. I kicked a door. That was enough. I was removed from my home and stayed with a brother. But I had to stand on my own. I moved into a house to look after while the owner was abroad. It was filthy, but I made it liveable. That period was the darkest of my life.

Just before COVID hit, something changed. My friends and I arranged to go to the South of England for a short trip, 2 days max. I met my old love there, the South African girl with emerald green eyes. The same day we met again on the beach because our friends arranged a BBQ there. It was nice. There, I met the girl with a foreign accent with big, beautiful, chocolate-coloured eyes. I felt unworthy. Broken. But she saw me. She spoke to me. I couldn’t understand why. I was a broken man with a record and baggage. But she didn’t care. She saw me.

We kept talking to each other over the phone for a good few months. At first, just friends. Broken people. Then something happened. Love. Real love. And now, I’m married. Married to the most amazing human being I’ve ever known. We’re both disfellowshipped. Cast out. Cut off. But I’ve never been more alive. Thank you, Agnieszka. Thank you for loving me, saving me, and showing me what life is.

To the people who judged me: Thank you. Your rejection gave me the freedom to escape. To my family who won't speak to me—I still love you, but I must heal now. I’ve tried reaching out. It's time to say goodbye, unless you wake up.

To the organisation: You stole years of my life. You controlled, shunned, and broke people. But I’m free now. You can’t shame someone into silence forever.

And to my true friends, fellow escapees, and my wife: Thank you for being my family. You’ve taught me what love, freedom, and life really are.

I’m 51 now. I’m still different. Still healing. Still odd. But I’m finally happy. This is me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.