Working For The MudMan…
This is yet another testimony of what life was like under this “ministry”.
It is with shaking hands and tears in my eyes that I write these words which are truly just snippets of my personal experiences within Potter’s Field Ministries and Mudman Burgers.
There is much more, far too much to write all of it. As a warning, you may find these stories to be disturbing and/or triggering. There are countless other stories just like mine. They are not to be taken “with a grain of salt” as Sharon DiMuro, legal counsel for PFM, states. They are very real. Those running PFM today are not remorseful for their actions or behavior. I don’t point that out because I am looking for an apology. I don’t need one. Rather, I fear for the safety and well-being of any person who would work for Potter’s Field of Mudman Burgers in the future as they seek to re-open. I do not wish for anyone else to be hurt as we were. As we still are.
*As a note, any mention of “he” or “him” is referring to Mike Rozell*
I was 21 the first time I was brought into his office late at night and sat in horror as he screamed at and verbally tore apart my teammates and I to the breaking point of sobbing and hyperventilating. This continued for hours.
I was 22 when I was brought into an office where he verbally berated me for hours until I had cried so much I was no longer able to speak when he asked me questions which largely surrounded the topic of my past sexual experiences.
I was 22 when I was wearing a hood while standing outside on a cold night and he took me aside, pulled my hood off of my head, and told me to “look at him like a woman”.
I was 22 when I was pulled into an office and reprimanded by him for sharing details of my own life with a friend. I was strictly forbidden from sharing my own story with anyone.
I was 22 ( May 20, 2018 at 2:49 AM) when I journaled:
I am nothing. I’ve been working Kalispell for two weeks with a third on the horizon (Working in the Kalispell location meant working from 9am until you finished closing for the night at around 10:30pm or later for 6 days out of the week. That’s at least 81 hours a week). I am drained. I have no life outside of Mudman. I don’t have time to cook or clean or exercise. I don’t have time to just be because I’m always at work…I have nothing. I am nothing. I will never be anything…I feel like my head is under-water and I’m gasping for breath. I’m choking.
I was 23 (June 30, 2018 at 2:19 AM) when I journaled:
I get lost. Maybe in the buns. Maybe in the meat I have to prep. Maybe in the four bags (200 pounds) of potatoes I cut, bucketed, picked up and filled with water, lifted out of the sink, then dragged into the fridge. Maybe it was while I felt nothing but pain in my whole body. Maybe it was in washing dishes until 10:30 pm. Maybe it’s in me working at Kalispell next week, too. I just need to cry but I don’t have time. When do I fit that in? It’s not my schedule. I’m hurting. Physically. Emotionally.
I was 23 when asked by trusted pastors, I flat-out denied experiencing rage-filled meetings or any of the other allegations that have been raised against PFM because the memories were so painful and traumatic I had blocked them from my mind.
I was 23 when, while journaling, details of the first meeting I described above flooded my mind and I realized that I had, in fact, been subjected to extreme verbal and emotional abuse. I sat in bed and had a panic attack.
I was 24 and six months removed from working for PFM when I heard from two of my friends (who are also former staff members) that he had blatantly lied to them about me. I have since heard from other friends that he told them the same lies when talking about me.