JOY COMES WITH THE MOURNING

     Raw emotions clawed at my heart, holding it momentarily captive. “In your anger, do not sin,” (Ephesians 4:26) kept ringing through my head, along with the message from Romans 12:19 “Vengeance is mine, says the Lord” (simplified version). He is not worth it, I reminded myself. Let the anger go. I called my husband, my best friend into the room and told him what I’d just read. Burning, angry tears flooded my eyes as I opened up the desk drawer, pulled out a picture of me at two years old, and shoved it in my husband’s direction, yelling “I was this age! This was me at the time that monster did all this to me! I was so little! Barely younger than our son now! How could he? How dare he? What kind of evil does this to someone so little and innocent?” I demanded answers I knew he could never give. My husband is a good man. He has never hit anyone. He loves his family almost as much as he loves Jesus. I collapsed into his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed, and I sat in a chair at the computer. Emotionally spent, all I could do was continue to cry. The court papers said it all. My stepdad lied.

            Last week, I went on a journey to find out the truth, once and for all. I wanted to see the official court records of my stepdad’s conviction. I wanted to understand his piddly jail sentence for almost ten years of severe sexual abuse and rape. It took me less than 32 hours from the time I inquired about the court papers until the moment I opened the email from the county court. 27 pages in all, only the first few blew my mind. On them, my stepdad confessed to three counts of sexual abuse, 1^st degree, and three counts of harassment of a minor under the age of 14. Six counts in total, with fictitious dates as to when the abuse happened. Now, looking back, everything makes so much sense. He always had a smug look on his face. Adults close to me kept saying “it’s not that bad, sweetie.” The short jail sentence even makes sense now. Six counts. What a pack of lies! It was more like six times a week. How dare he? It takes all my strength, all of the strength lent to me by my Christian brethren, and all the strength of Jesus within me not to lose my mind and sin right now. Six counts. That’s all he was convicted of. It truly was his word against mine, a terrified nine-year-old girl. Shame on our justice system and shame on him (stepdad) for knowing the truth and blatantly lying to try to save himself. May God have mercy on his soul.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. – 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

    I am trusting in God to hold me and carry me through this week as I process this information, mourn the life I might have had, had he not stolen my innocence, and dig deep into God’s Word so that I may not sin or cause others to stumble while I am in so much raw pain. I thank God for my Church family – friends far and near who are lifting me up in prayer. This pain will not define me. It will not break my spirit.

“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” – Isaiah 41:10

    God will never let me go. To me, the greatest truth about God is that He is absolute. God is the only being that we can absolutely trust in to never or always. He will never leave us, nor forsake us (Joshua 1:5) and He will always be with us, even unto the end of the age (Matthew 28:20). There is no one else who can make and keep these promises. God is absolute. We all need someone in our corner like that, don’t we? I am so grateful He is with me now. Tears burn my cheeks as I picture each of you, dear readers, discovering this information and picturing your own heartaches, remembering them with clarity as they pierce your hearts. I want you to know – you are never alone. God is with you.

The pain you’re feeling today can’t compare to the joy that is coming. Romans 8:18 (paraphrased).

He pleads guilty to six counts. Just six.

“…we also glory in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.  And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.” Romans 5:3b-5

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline Hours: Available 24 hours. Languages: English, Spanish. https://988lifeline.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.

 

TAPESTRY OF HOPE

     The entire world was black. There was nothing. Just a sense of being held in the blackest place I had ever been. Not one object is to be seen. No person. No physical sensation of being held. Just a sense of cognitive knowledge that I would never be let go of. I was dead. Medically proclaimed dead for two entire minutes and a few seconds. Around me were the school nurse, my panicked mother, the gym teacher who found me, and possibly the principal of the school, but I don’t remember. An ambulance was on the way. Poison still trickled from my lips, down my cheeks. The bottle lay on the floor next to me. I was flat on my back underneath the bleachers in the upstairs portion of the school gym. Sixteen years old and I had given up on life. Jesus, come take me away…

"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations." "Ah, Sovereign LORD," I said, "I do not know how to speak; I am only a child." Jeremiah 1:5,6

            That was the scene of my second suicide attempt in two years. This time, I nearly succeeded. No one was supposed to be in the upper part of the gym that day, which is why I chose that locale to die peacefully. My emotional pain had become too much to bear, therapy wasn’t working, and I desperately wanted to escape my stepdad. To say that I hated him was a vast understatement. To look at him was to feel an overwhelming sense of dread. When would the abuse start up again? I was sure it eventually would.

“'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future. '” – Jeremiah 29:11

            Looking back at that time, I had no hope. There was nowhere to escape. I know because I kept trying to run away. The local police always brought me back, telling me how “lucky” I was to have such a nice home to go back to. The bald police officer assigned as the school resource officer at the time loved to remind me of this, with a sneer on his face. He used to pull me out of class routinely to harass me, asking if I was telling people we were dating and if I had told anyone he’d kissed me (I hadn’t, and was shocked that he would make up such a blatant lie. He wasn’t the one who’d harmed me all those years ago in my home). 

"Baldy" was stalking me. He would follow me around campus, obviously listening in on every one of my conversations, only to bring the contents up later when he could corner me alone. He terrified me. I was not safe at home; I was not safe at school and there was nowhere I could run to where he could not find me and return me home. Every time he was commanded to place handcuffs on me, he did so with delight, making sure I understood that this was all for my benefit somehow.

            When my behavior became too much for my parents to handle, they would send me off to one psychiatric unit or another. Sometimes they would drive me, sometimes the local police would drive me. When the police drove me, I went in handcuffs and my legs were chained together. I sat quiet and scared in the back of a cop car, waiting for them to assault me. Mercifully, they never did. 

One of the times I was forced into psychiatric hospitalization, I was driven by some medical volunteers who tried to make small talk as they drove me to a facility eight hours from my hometown. It was in the middle of the night, so they were largely unsuccessful in obtaining much information from me. Darkness seems to be a common theme of my teen years, doesn’t it? What a perfect setting for the devil to come slithering in, hissing his lies into my ears. Too young to know better, I stored them in my heart as well as my head.

The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly. John 10:10

            Every time I entered a new psychiatric facility, the same events would occur. I would be issued hospital clothing and allowed to keep only my underwear and bra. All my personal effects would be confiscated, and I would be ushered to a private room containing a bed, a toilet, a sink, a mirror, and a shower. In a corner of the ceiling, there was a security camera. How reassuring. A few times a day, we would have group therapy, where all the residents of the unit were encouraged to share their thoughts, feelings, and testimony as to why they were being held in the unit. These sessions were little more than time fillers to me. By the second or third time being involuntarily held in one of these places, I had learned to play the game and play it well. Be sweet, appeal to the meanest nurse, and follow every rule. In three days, I would be out of there. It worked nearly every time. Six times between 1998 and 2005 I was placed on involuntary hold in a psychiatric unit. My mom once lamented that I treated those holds like a personal vacation. I did. They were. I was away from my stepdad and Officer “Baldy”.

            One would think that the psychiatric units were helpful for me to express my emotions, seek further help and gain strength towards healing. Yeah, that’s what I thought the first couple of times I was locked in there, too. What a naïve little kid I was. No one was there to help me. The adage “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” is applied here. Instead of help, I was given medication to drown out the “voices” that were telling me to die. Those medications made me sleep all day long. I missed a lot of school. Then, there were the medications intended to “bring back” happy feelings that a kid my age was supposed to be feeling. Cool. Cool. Which medication would make my stepdad disappear, though? Did anyone have a prescription for that? 

No one could even advise me properly on what to do once I was home. The best, most realistic advice I ever received from a hospital employee was to “stay low and bide time” until I was 18 and could move out. This was from a psychiatric nurse who had just patiently listened to me cry for about an hour about how scared I was to go home because stepdad was there, and he had abused me for years. I hated that the courts let him come home after he had served his time and been observed by a parole officer for a mere three years. My mom arrived about an hour afterward to take me home. Now I was sure of it. It was up to me to survive this hell on my own. No one was coming on a white horse to save me.

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.” – Joshua 1:9

            The healing process takes a lot of time. I have spent 29 years on it. If I had cut my parents out of my life when I was 18 years old, I’m sure it would have taken less time, but that wasn’t my path. I made different choices based on the wisdom and knowledge (or lack of it) that I possessed. For over 30 years, I spent time bouncing around in churches, clinging to every ounce of scripture that I could, but I never truly understood it. Sometimes I would ask for clarification from the Priest or Pastor, depending upon the denomination, but I was never satisfied with the answer. 

In liberal churches, I was taught to hate those who believed the Bible to be infallible, and inerrant. The Bible was a series of stories and legends passed down over the years in an attempt to explain the unexplainable, I was told. In conservative churches, I was often told to “keep reading” and “keep praying” for the Holy Spirit to reveal the answer to me. That’s all good and well for an actual believer, but I wasn’t one yet. I wouldn’t go on to become a Christian until 2011, one fateful night when the pain became too much for me to bear, and instead of suicide, I chose Christ.

Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” – Matthew 11:28-30

 

Freshman year

 

Sophomore year of High School

 

Junior year of High School

My Senior Portrait from High School

Stay tuned for another episode. I aim to crank out the blog posts three times a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help right away, and don't stop talking until someone acts on what you're saying.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

 National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline Hours: Available 24 hours. Languages: English, Spanish. https://988lifeline.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.