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
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| Freshman year |
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| Sophomore year of High School |
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| Junior year of High School |
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| 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
988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline Hours: Available 24 hours. Languages: English, Spanish. https://988lifeline.org/
In Christ alone our hope is foundRun, don't walk
for help! You're worth it.
