.

MacGyver. That’s mostly what I remember. One of my all time favorite TV shows as a little kid. I was about 10 years old and MacGyver was on TV. It had to be a rerun because it was really late at night. My dad was lying on the couch and I was sitting on the very end of the couch near his feet.

 

 

All of the sudden, it began. He started telling me to do things and I blindly obeyed. I moved as slowly as I could, resisting the only way I knew how. I was in a sudden state of shock and confusion. I absolutely could NOT believe what was happening. I couldn’t believe that it was my own dad doing this. I was also incredibly bewildered and perturbed. I knew what was happening was wrong…didn’t I? I knew that what my neighbor did to me a year before was really, really wrong. That’s why I never told anyone. But now…my DAD???

Wait…maybe it wasn’t wrong.

No, no, no…it’s definitely wrong.

I was so confused and my mind raced back and forth about the morality of what was happening, how I could get out of the situation, and how to deal with the fact that it was my own dad this time.

It seems like it lasted forever. I remember twisting my neck to awkwardly stare at the TV, pretending like it wasn’t bothering me. I stared so hard at the TV. Just kept staring…didn’t even blink. It was the only place I could look. I started involuntarily trembling. It slowly got worse and worse. I kept my neck twisted toward the TV to the point that I was in pain. Shaking…then, the tears. I couldn’t stop shaking and I surely couldn’t stop the tears. I think (but I’m not sure) that’s what made him stop.

He coldly told me to go wash up. I did. I couldn’t scrub hard enough or use enough soap. I stayed in the bathroom a long time. I was afraid to come out, afraid that it might not be over yet. When I did get the courage to open the door, I darted into my room.

I can’t remember anything else. I could tell you that I cried myself to sleep that night, but I don’t remember. Honestly, I’m glad I don’t remember. I’ve prayed so many times that God would take these memories from me. He never does.

The next thing I remember is the next day. We were driving over to my grandma’s house. I can’t remember who was driving (it must have been my dad), but I remember sitting in the front seat, looking out the window. I remember hearing the words, “we don’t talk about things like that.” He was referring to the night before, essentially telling me not to tell anyone. I remember knowing that he was just trying to shut me up. I continued looking out the window and rolled my eyes.

Dichotomy

I feel desperately alone. Yet I will tell you that we are children of God. God is our Father and we are all his family. Even when we feel we are alone, God is always there. We might not feel Him nor hear Him, but make no mistake…He IS with you.

I know that no place on this Earth is safe. Yet I will tell you that you are safe in the palm of God’s hand. You are safe when you lose yourself in His word. You are safe when you immerse yourself in prayer and converse with the Lord.

I feel completely and utterly insignificant. Yet I will tell you that we are God’s chosen people. We belong to God.

I feel sad, depressed, overwhelmingly hopeless. Yet I will tell you to hold on, to trust in Jesus. Hold tight to His promises. Confide in Him, talk with Him…then listen to Him.

I feel…no…I know that I don’t want to live anymore. Yet I will tell you that we are alive in Jesus. God has given us the gift of life. He created us with thought and precision. It’s wrong to even think of throwing that away. I would say don’t focus on yourself. Instead, focus on your Saviour and your Lord. When you have negative thoughts, focus on praising God, your loving Father. Tune in to His goodness, His gentleness, His strength, His love for you and for all of humanity. Concentrate on others- how can you help others? What are their needs? Look for a need in people, open yourself up and allow God to use you to somehow benefit others.

So much easier said than done. There is nothing profound here…just the constant battle inside my mind.

Run from the negative thoughts- they are not from God. Run to Jesus, run to your Heavenly Father. Trust in Him and cling to Him always.

Mystery Money

I have to report on God working.

Last week, I received a mysterious white envelope in my mailbox at work. The only thing written on it was the first letter of my first name. There was no note inside, just $40. Ironically, only a few days earlier, I realized my monthly finances were going to be off by about $25. I’m working really hard to pay down debt so I’ve allocated every extra dollar that’s not going toward bills to pay debt. I didn’t leave myself with any wiggle room. Unexpectedly, my electric bill was about $25 higher than it normally is. I was trying to figure out how I could scrounge even more on my food money to put $25 back in the bank.

Then, this mysterious white envelope appeared. I even chuckled right there in the mail room and thanked God out loud for answering my prayer. I told Him there was about $15 extra that I didn’t need though. After I had my little chuckle, I started to wonder if this was a mistake…was this money meant for someone else? Was someone paying someone else for Girl Scout cookies or something? I quickly came to the conclusion that this white envelope holding $40 was an error. So, I sent out an email to the entire staff asking if anyone knew who put it in my mail box or if anyone was expecting a payment that they didn’t receive. I got a few cryptic emails back, saying ‘maybe it’s for you’ and ‘maybe someone has a crush on you.’

I then talked to several people at work and found out that over the last few years, there has been someone who randomly and anonymously gives money to those in need. These people asked me if I’d told anyone how I was working nights in order to pay my debt down.  The answer was yes, I had mentioned to several people that I work some nights. So they concluded it was from this anonymous giver. I’m a great investigator and I’m going to put my skills to use to find out who this person is (we’ve got about 200 people on staff here)…I just really want to thank them and let them know how much it means!

But, the above story is not even the best part. Yesterday, a teenager came to me with a dire need for nine dollars. She explained a sudden emergency and told me how she had spent the last 24 hours borrowing money from friends and family…she just needed nine more dollars. I had completely forgotten about the mysterious white envelope! So, I went out to my car and was scrounging around for singles and quarters to give to her. I found eight dollars and made it my mission to borrow at least one more dollar on her behalf. As I was walking back into the building, I suddenly remembered the $40 in the envelope! That’s what the extra money was for! I truly feel that not only did God provide for me, but He was also providing for this girl. I happily took out the extra twenty dollar bill from the envelope and shared the story of its mysterious appearance with her. I told her that I was pretty sure this extra money was for her, not me. The look of relief in her eyes and on her face was all I needed to know that this was God providing for His people. Forty dollars is all it took.

God is indeed good!

Just a side note…with everything else that’s going on in my life, I am deeply grateful for this kind of reminder that God is here and He is working. When I feel alone or distraught, it’s an amazing feeling to be reminded that God has never left…and He never will.

Betrayal

Memories are like that…like those chocolate chip cookies my grandma and I made…the cookies are your sweet memories and they’re sprinkled with bits of bitter darkness.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

What a great day to write about love. Or betrayal…

Don’t you just adore your grandmother? I adore mine. She was always one of my most favorite people on the face of this Earth. I have so many fond memories of her taking care of me when I was sick (and my mom had to work), us baking chocolate chip cookies from scratch, playing on her property…climbing trees and running around wreaking havoc. Sprinkled in with these great memories are a few bad ones as well. One incident occurred that caused a great rift between my uncle and I. (This is the same uncle that committed suicide.) My sweet, ol’ grandma had Alzheimer’s and entered a phase where she started wandering off. She was at my house with me (in da hood) and we were the only ones there. She suddenly took off, went out the door and down the street. I panicked because she was a little old, white lady in a very bad neighborhood. It wasn’t safe at all and this situation was not good. I ran after her, caught up with her, and begged and pleaded for her to come back inside the house. She kept walking and so did I. As a last resort, I even tried taking her purse from her, thinking that she would follow her purse. I was going to use it to entice her to turn around and head back to the house. It didn’t work. She became furious that I tried to take her purse and I quickly folded. So, this being before the time of cell phones, I left my grandma and raced back to the house to call my uncle for help. He was staying at her house about 4 miles away. I asked him to come help me, to drive her car to us and pick her up. Mind you, this is in the sweltering heat and humidity of South Florida, where people literally melt if they stay outside too long. Not only was I concerned that my sweet grandma was easy prey in da hood, but I also knew it wasn’t good for someone so old to get overheated. My uncle denied my request and we got into it. He refused to come get his mom and I was shocked. I couldn’t believe it. I yelled something at him on the phone- can’t remember what- and I hung up. I had to get back out there with her to protect her. If nothing else, I would be by her side. So, I raced back onto the street and ran my little heart out to catch up to her. We walked (at a slow old lady pace) for what seemed like hours. We were over halfway to her house when my uncle pulled up in her car and got her to get inside. He took off and left me standing there on the side of the road. I was relieved he finally decided to come help her, but I was still so furious at his cold initial refusal. And it didn’t help that he LEFT ME there! He left me in the middle of a terribly dangerous neighborhood where gun shots regularly rang out. I figured he must have been mad at me too. We didn’t speak for years after that…so many years, that I actually lost count.

So, this past Christmas, my mom and I had a heart to heart discussion about the past. She told me things I never knew and I did the same with her. One of the things she told me hurt me so badly that I refused to believe her. It’s been stewing in my brain for nearly two months now. My mom told me that my grandma knew that my dad sexually abused me and that she worked to keep it covered up. It looks like she was more concerned with keeping her son’s (my dad) reputation flawless than with making sure that her 9 year old granddaughter was OK. I was in such shock when my mom told me this that I couldn’t even fathom it being remotely true. Perhaps my mom picked up on my disbelief because she repeated it and then expanded on the situation. She said that somehow in the conversation, my grandma offered to pay for therapy down the line, if I would ever need it.

Ever NEED it?!? Ha! I sat back in the midst of being dumbfounded. I am f**king ready to kill myself over this sh*t and IF I ever needed help, my dead grandmother was supposed to be the one to pay for it. Thanks, grandma.

I’m still processing it all…I still wonder how true this really is. The fact that I distrust my mom and now, my dear sweet grandma… I just don’t even know what to think!

Tears are streaming down my face as I write this…as the betrayal of someone so precious to me sets in.

All my fond memories…are sh*t. If she was so ready to betray me…to cover up her granddaughter’s sexual abuse, to leave her granddaughter in silence, with no support, no nothing, then that means that everything we did together was a lie. It was probably just her guilty conscience trying to amend things. And that’s giving her too much credit.

I’m not going to lie. My family sucks. Nearly everyone passed away when I was little anyway, but the few family members I knew and interacted with sucked. It’s a good thing that my pastor just did his sermon on the topic of family last Sunday. I guess I need to try to cling more to my church as my family.

Matthew 12: 49-50

Ephesians 2:13-22

I can’t even think of a good way to end this…my mind is fractured and I’m trying to tend to the various pieces. I can say that I’ll never look at a chocolate chip cookie the same way again.

Update on…Fear

Garden of the Gods, Colorado Springs

An update on Joe…

I moved to Colorado about 4 years ago to get a fresh start. Even though I feel extremely isolated here (with no close friends that I see on a regular basis), I still felt safe. All the people who have ever hurt me were very far away and that made me feel better.

Until I decided to check on Joe. I found his Facebook page…a background picture of Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs. His profile picture is him with a huge smile with his wife and 2 children. The first thing that was alarming was that he was ever in Colorado!! Why did he have a background pic of Garden of the Gods? Vacation, I guessed. The second thing that was alarming was his wife…she looked like me. Reddish hair and all.

So, just to make sure he was still far away, I researched Joe. My heart shot up to my throat when I saw he was now employed and living in Colorado Springs. He’s working as an attorney for a defense and space company. He’s probably making a jillion dollars, living the sweet life: white picket fence in a big house with his family and 2 little ones. (Note the tad of jealousy.) I’m struggling and he excels.

Well, at least he’s not working in the court system as either a prosecutor or defender. I’d have a serious problem with that.

But, I can’t explain my feelings when I first found out he was HERE so close to me!! Colorado Springs is about an hour and a half drive south of me. But, I went there all the time! I love Garden of the Gods and will continue to go there. (Garden of the Gods is actually a very special place to me.) I have to be honest…my initial reaction was to move. I think I might have had a minor anxiety attack that lasted several days. I was paranoid, always looking around, shaking, my heart was racing and so was my mind. That’s when I decided I needed to leave Colorado. Even though he lived an hour and a half away, that was TOO CLOSE!! Never in a million years would I want to randomly run into him. I’d probably freeze up, panic, then faint. And then wake up and throw another blueberry muffin.

I talked to a friend who knew Joe and the whole story. She spoke common sense into me and made me realize I shouldn’t move, nor did I have to in order to feel safe again. It took me several months to feel relatively safe. I’m still on the look out for him though…just in case. I’m still not comfortable knowing he’s that close by, but I’ll live. Isn’t ‘do not fear’ and/ or ‘fear not’ in the Bible many times?  Maybe I should take that to heart.

Cancer blows.

I’m currently dealing with many old wounds being brought up. A pastor at my church, (whom I barely know, yet admire immensely for his compassion and work with others) was just diagnosed with cancer. It crushed me!  It affected me and continues to affect me way more than it should. I immediately had words with God. (That’s street talk for ‘we had it out.’) I was so mad at God. How could you let cancer affect someone so wonderful? Someone so young?  Someone who does so much to spread love and caring around this world?  Someone who has a beautiful wife and two young children? Why would you allow someone like that to be afflicted? I just don’t get it.

This brought me closer in to the Lord…I find myself in prayer constantly for this man. I feel so deeply sad for him and his family. I know they’re in for a long term struggle and I feel so helpless! I feel like there’s nothing I can do to help him. Yes, I can and do pray for healing and peace…but aside from that, there’s not much one can do for cancer.

I had a short conversation with him at church the other day. I had already decided I only wanted to lift this man up, always be encouraging, never say anything negative. I wanted to make sure that he only got hope…so I had already decided to NOT mention anything of the many, many family members I’ve lost to cancer. Only a week before I found out about his diagnosis, I lost my cousin to a rare form of incurable cancer. And yet, somehow my stupid mouth spewed out about my dad. Shit. I didn’t want to say that. I didn’t want him to know that my dad didn’t make it (because I wanted him to have hope that anyone can make it!) So, I tried to clarify right away- I pointed out that my dad did not want treatment and he gave up and let cancer eat him alive. My dad was diagnosed at Stage IV only because he waited so long to seek help for feeling sick. My dad hated hospitals and doctors and it took my mom forever to get him to agree to go see what was wrong. So, my dad agreed to surgery for the cancer, but he refused to do chemo or radiation. I remember my parents fighting about it multiple times. My mom felt (and still feels) abandoned by my dad. She just couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t want to fight it and try to live through it. So, in realizing that I just told my pastor friend about someone who died of cancer, I tried to show him the difference- that he was going to fight it and my dad didn’t. That he would have hope even though my dad didn’t.

Let’s not even go near the fact that I now believe that maybe my dad thought he deserved to die. He was a sexual predator- he had preyed upon and abused his little brother and his daughter. I can’t help but wonder if he felt guilty, if he felt that this was karma. Maybe he just accepted his cancer as a death sentence and that might be why he refused to fight it.

Maybe that’s part of why it’s affecting me so deeply.

Cancer has cut through me over and over and over again- with each family member it’s taken. And then all these memories come flooding back…my dad with cancer, dying at my house when I was little. I have one very distinct memory: my dad was yellow because the cancer had caused bile to spill into his body. He got up from the bed and rushed to the bathroom and started vomiting. As a little kid, I didn’t know what to do to help. So, I stood with my father and gently rubbed his back while he was bent over the toilet. In between bouts of vomiting, he yelled at me to stop and get away. At the time, I was deeply hurt. I was only trying to help and didn’t know what to do. As an adult, I can understand that when someone is nauseated, rubbing their back probably only makes them feel more sick. So, I understand why he pushed me away. But, that’s pretty much the last memory I have of interacting with my dad. My next memory is of him laying in his casket.

 

 

Update:

Cancer is in remission for the amazing guy I started off writing this post about. YAAAAAYYYY!!! I can’t exclaim that enough! I am so happy for him and his family! I thank God every single day for his healing and I pray that God continues to keep his body free of cancer.  🙂

So much has happened internally with regards to this situation. Since I first wrote this post, I’ve been in serious prayer daily for his healing and that’s brought me face to face with all kinds of issues that I personally have. I’d look at this guy’s children in church. I’d try not to stare. When all this started I believe his daughter was around 10 or 11 years old. I was 9 years old when I was first raped by my adult neighbor. I’d look at how sweet and innocent and frail-looking his daughter is and wonder how the hell someone could hurt or take advantage of a little girl like that. Even the thought of this is making my hands shake right now as I’m typing.

I think his son was about 11 or 12- the same age I was when my dad passed away from cancer. I remembered how I thought I caused my dad’s death and how the heaviness, the guilt, the seriousness of the situation weighed upon me and pressed me down.

Having this guy beat cancer was so important and symbolic to me on so many different levels. Yes, of course the victory is his and his family’s and the Lord’s…but seeing myself in his children had such a profound impact on me. I can’t even think of words to explain it.

Needless to say, I’m ecstatic for his healing and I’m so relieved he and his family can go on living their lives. He’s become one of the people that I admire greatly for their walk with the Lord…his selflessness and compassion, the caring nature of both him and his wife, the way they love their children…these are truly great people and this world needs more people like them! Praise God for remission!  🙂

New information…my dad

So, what does all this mean for my dad?  Well, as I sat there in utter shock digesting what my cousin had just told me…several realizations came flooding in. I realized I wasn’t the only one my father had abused. That has so many levels of (I don’t know what) to it. A year and a half later and I’m still fully digesting that!

 

I also realized that the same thing must have happened to my dad. My father was born in 1944. So with sexual abuse in the 40s…I mean, where did he learn to do that? I think back then it had to be learned from someone. Nowadays, with the internet and how p**n permeates our society, I believe people can allow their own minds to be twisted by watching some of the stuff that’s out there. But, back before that existed…I think he must have learned it from somewhere…either by watching it be done or by having it done to him. And because of his compulsion to do it, both as a youngster and as an adult, I think it must have been deeply ingrained and therefore, must have been done to him. Now, you might think I’m just making excuses for my abuser. Ehhh…I don’t think I am. My father REALLY WAS a great person. He was kind, intelligent, helped others out so much, and had a heart for people who struggled. But, I think he was tormented and afflicted by his deviant thoughts, which turned into actions. Obviously, it was wrong and he was at fault. I’m not negating that. But, I can’t help but wonder what happened to him. And who did it? Was there someone else in my family responsible for abusing my father? Was he just mimicking behavior he learned as a child?  I honestly have no idea. Any adult who could have done something to my dad as a kid is long gone.

But, it brings up the question to me of generational curses. And that might explain why life has been so hard. Could the sins of my father have trickled down into the family tree?

I have a headache and I feel sick…like throwing up, sick. I’m going to stop writing for now. Give it all to God.

New information…my uncle

About a year and half ago, I came into some new information about my father. I knew he sexually abused me…but I never knew that he had done it to anyone else. My uncle, his little brother, committed suicide. He committed suicide by police. He had been depressed and was talking about committing suicide when his wife called 911 to Baker Act him. My uncle was extremely close with my cousin, who is a retired police officer. My uncle spent his whole life listening to stories about the department, officers responding to calls, undercover work, everything. My uncle knew exactly how the police respond to an armed man who refuses to put down his firearm. Doesn’t everyone know how that will end?  As the police entered the front door of my uncle’s house, he barricaded himself in his bedroom in the back of the house. The bedroom had a back door. My uncle took his pistol with no ammunition in it and fled from the back bedroom and circled around to the front of his house. A few officers were still at the front door, just entering. My uncle pointed his gun at them…

They drew their firearms in response and yelled at him to drop his weapon. He did not. They fired. He died.

Upon discovering that it was an unloaded pistol, they realized he committed suicide by police. He never had any intention of hurting anyone or of shooting an officer. But, it was a quick, easy way for him to go. I still remember tears filling my eyes as I stood in his front yard trying to clear my vision enough to see the blood in the grass where he fell and the circles of singed grass. The singed circles were from all the patrol cars that were idling on the grass as officers probably had to fill out endless paperwork afterward.

I never really knew why my uncle committed suicide. I asked, of course. But, got a vague answer from his wife that he was depressed.  I never knew why he was depressed.

About a year and a half ago, I had a deep conversation with my cousin. She grew up with my uncle and adored both him and my dad. She mentioned something about why my uncle was depressed and when I inquired, she replied that it was because no one believed him about something. She refused to tell me what. Aha…I instantly knew. I pressed and pressed…to the point that I refused to leave her house that night until she told me. She finally said that my uncle…all along, my uncle had said that my dad sexually abused him when they were kids. She admitted that no one in the family believed my uncle because everyone thought so highly of my dad. And my dad was a great person…he really was.

But, now…now, I understood! My dad did the same to my uncle as he did to me. My uncle was telling the truth all along and no one believed him. A lifetime of no one believing him finally drove him to suicide. Not only that…but let me say that my uncle was never my favorite relative. In short, he was always an asshole to me.  To everyone. I feel guilty saying that, but he was. Even as a little child, I knew my uncle didn’t like me. As an adult, we had an argument over my grandma.  She had alzheimer’s and one day, she wandered off and he refused to come pick her up. I was fuming mad for months and we didn’t speak to each other for years.

What broke the ice was that he gave my brother and I some land that he inherited from my grandparents. We mended our relationship, but it was still distant. It always was. The funny thing is that if I had only known…if I had only known what he told everyone else! I would have been the one person who believed it.

Now, I understand my uncle so much more than when he was alive. I understand why he had such a bad attitude, why he seemed to dislike us all so much. Would you be very friendly and loving toward your abuser’s children?! Nah… you’d just want to stay away. He saw his abuser fall in love, get married, have children, have the little white picket fence life. And how is that fair?? It’s no wonder he had so much animosity towards us all.

Now…even though it’s too late…I have so much compassion for my uncle and what he went through. I wish I could have been there for him, but I just never knew. And people who did know what he accused my dad of never told me in order to protect me. Little did they know, that it offered no protection at all.

 

The rock years

Years passed.  I still loved God and prayed for his help every day, but couldn’t have felt farther away.

I felt closer to the music.  Closer to the lyrics and the people who wrote them.  I began going to concerts and experiencing the thrill of live music.  During one of my first concerts, I was approached by the bass player of the band after the show.  He asked me if I wanted to go get dinner with him.  We wound up on South Beach at a pizza joint.  I had never really talked to a guy in a band before…but this guy was so casual about approaching me and talking to me that it seemed normal.  We began to date…or so I thought.  Well, we really did date and see each other for several months.  But, as I would learn, in the world of rock music, there’s no such thing as a monogamous relationship.  At the time, I had no idea.  He would call me all the time…each time from a different city.  Every time he was in the state of Florida, no matter how far away, we’d arrange to see each other.  He’d bring me backstage at different outdoor concerts where lots of other bands were playing.  I got to meet tons of other musicians who I had long adored.  I became sort of superficial friends with these people.  We were friends, but we didn’t know each other very well.  I extracted every ounce of meaning I could from these friendships though, since it was all I had.  Once I realized that we weren’t exactly in a monogamous relationship, I broke things off with him, explaining that I wasn’t like that.  He said that’s part of what he loved about me.  But, that was it.  We kept in touch for years through email and occasionally seeing each other at shows throughout the years.  His band blew up and he became incredibly famous.  Now, he’s married and has a child and I couldn’t be happier for him.  🙂

Getting ready to play at Woodstock ’99

Meeting people backstage during our short lived relationship opened the world of rock music up to me.  All the years of listening, singing along and playing guitar…and here I found myself standing on the side of the stage, watching these various artists perform.  They momentarily took me out of my prison of depression and put me on a temporary high of music, glamor and partying.  Let’s get this clear right now.  I never did drugs and no, I was never a groupie.  I witnessed those things…rampant alcohol abuse, drug use, random sex with girls who would appear out of nowhere.  When I dated the guy in the band, he warned me to be careful of people…that because we were together, he said, people would try to use me.  I thought he was being silly and paranoid and all but dismissed what he said.  But, I kept it in the back of my mind…be careful, don’t get hurt again.

Like I said, I learned from him that there’s no such thing as a monogamous relationship for a musician.  I never got into another relationship with an artist again.  I had random times of partying a little too hard, perhaps a little too much drinking and I’d make out with someone…but that was it!!  I got to meet and party with Korn multiple times.  You can imagine how giddy I was inside…of course, outside, I was trying to play it totally cool.  They offered me weed and I said no.  They countered with “but this is Korn crypt, you’ll never have anything better”.  I told them I never smoked before and they responded with “Great!  Even better for this to be your first hit…c’mon, you’re with Korn, man!!”  Yeah, I was with Korn.  But, I passed.  I was told I was messing up ‘the rotation.’  At the time, I had no idea what that meant.

I loved going to concerts.  It was my time to come alive and enjoy myself, if only for an evening. Every time I met one of my musical idols, I had an even better time.  Knowing these people and even simply meeting them, made me feel important.  It was the first ounce of importance my soul had felt in years.  I went to hundreds and hundreds of concerts over the course of 15 years.

A friend introduced me to a guy who was in a local band.  I heard my ex’s words ringing in my head, “be careful…people will use you”.  I thought he just wanted to use the people I knew in the industry to get his band signed.  As it turns out, he went to my high school…but with my little brother!!!  He seemed super cool and we continued to hang out.  We eventually became best friends.  I’d do merch for his band at all the local shows.  Doing merch means selling their merchandise, manning the table, selling CDs, t-shirts, hats, hoodies, etc.

It was around this time that I found myself longing for God.  I was pining for my long lost relationship with God, my Father.  I mean, I did have a relationship with him…it just felt distanced.  I had no desire to go back to church, but I had a desire to fully reunite with God.  I prayed a quick prayer that God would then give me the desire to go to church.  I thought listening to a sermon would be the best way to get pulled back in with the Lord.  But, I needed the desire to actually go.

By the following Saturday, I had an undeniable, burning desire to go to church.  Well….who woulda thunk it?  😉

‘Battle axe with locks of curls’

Kirsten Dunst in ‘Interview With A Vampire’

Being raped by Joe and even more, the abortion served as the catalyst for the great depression.  I was alone with only one friend who knew what had just happened and who stood by my side.  The guy I was in love with had abandoned me, disgusted with me.  My friend was dealing with her own issue…her boyfriend (my roommate) had just decided to move back to Sweden and left.  She was devastated and had no one else to confide in.  We became best friends…although not the healthiest of friends.

I was disgusted by her, actually.  She had crushed on Joe.  Even after what happened, she asked me one day if I wouldn’t mind if she hooked up with him.  I was stunned!  “Are you freaking serious?  What the hell is your problem??” I responded.  I couldn’t believe that just because he was good looking, she was willing to overlook him raping her friend.  So, even though she was my only close friend at this time…I knew I was truly alone.  She really didn’t have my back after all.

My downward spiral was quite ugly.  Everything from my childhood came back.  I had never officially dealt with being consistently raped as a 9 year old.  I had never dealt with what my dad did.  I had never really dealt with my dad’s death and the fact that I still felt guilty for ‘causing’ it by wishing it.  My support system within the church was gone, my relationship with God, my Father, had waned.  Most of the men I had a relationship with had screwed me over somehow.  I spiraled completely out of control.  I dove into the rock music…I found the lyrics related to me now, the angst in singers’ voices resonated with me.  Instead of focusing on the Bible, I focused on the lyrics to rock songs.  They understood me.  They felt my pain.  There was a magical, yet nonexistent relationship and understanding between rock songs and I.  I kept playing my guitar on the streets, now with more gusto and more emotion.  I wrote songs, I wrote various little odes.  I will publish some for you…they are terribly sad.

I lost interest in one of my most favorite things: eating!  I became anorexic.  I was depressed for years, anorexic for years and suicidal.  I made several half hearted attempts.  They weren’t ‘attention seeking’ as people might like to label it.  No one knew about it.  I did it in secret and in private.  I remember the last time quite well.  I cut…with a piece of glass that I called myself.  I was in fact, broken.  I was nothing but broken pieces, broken glass…piercing, slicing, hurting everything it touched.  And in fact, I did feel as if I messed up everything I ever laid eyes on.  My life was sh*t.  I was sh*t.  I had done the worst of the worst in terms of sinning.  God clearly didn’t love me and was pissed at me.  I felt like He wasn’t interested in helping me because I had sinned so badly.

I just…wasn’t worthy.  Of anything.

I was super skinny, never ate and worked out like a madman.  I think I was punishing myself by not eating.  After all, it was one of my greatest joys in life.  I could barely function.  It was all I could do to muster the strength to drag myself out of bed and into work in the mornings.  I dropped out of college and didn’t finish my Master’s degree.  I could barely survive.

My depression was deeper and wider than any ocean on earth.  I was literally depressed for nearly an entire decade.  A DECADE!!!  This was no joke, no ploy for attention… the worst things had happened to me and I had done the worst things…and I just couldn’t bear it anymore.  At the age of 9, my life went down the toilet.  I just wasn’t meant to be.

I clung to music, if nothing else.  I found lyrics that echoed my soul’s cries.

Mudvayne’s “Skrying”:

“Battle axe with locks of curls,
Introverted…

Do you remember the bedroom,
Was it your cell or was it your tomb…

Children, learning the secret knock, a nickel
To enter that place,
The place you would go to make things okay,
My cost, the price of a broken doll, can you
Remember that place,
The place you would go to take pain away?”

The line “battle axe with locks of curls” makes me picture a little girl with blond curls ramming her head against a wall, like she’s been so destroyed by abuse that she’s now self-destructive.  The line about the bedroom being your cell or your tomb resonated incredibly with me.  I asked myself that every day.  Was the abuse that occurred in the bedroom a temporary cell?  Or was it going to kill me, eventually becoming my tomb?

I loved the release that listening to Korn gave me.  I related to the lyrics, the pain and agony and felt better…even relieved after listening and screaming along with the singer, Jonathan Davis.  Turns out he had been raped as a child too.  No wonder I connected…

Korn’s “Daddy”

“You’ve raped!
I feel dirty
It hurt!
As a child
Tied down!
That’s a good boy
And f**ked!
Your own child
I scream!
No one hears me
It hurt!
I’m not a liar
My God!
Saw you watching”

To this day, that song brings me to tears.  At times, I tried to share it with people.  I didn’t want them to think Korn was this evil rock band, like people want to label all rock bands.  If your children relate to these lyrics, you should be scared.  And you should inquire with them what it is they relate to.  They might just need your help.