blue skies and new skies: July 2013

My journey through my past hasn't been an easy trip, but rather a long drawn out process. I have written my story below (in a memory graph sort of way), hoping that somehow, somewhere it would help someone in need. Although I have left out all the descriptive episodes of the abuse, some parts of it may still be triggering.

The Beginning…

I was born into a Christian family, the second oldest and the oldest daughter of 5 kids. My dad was a minister at the small church where we lived. I only have a few memories of my childhood prior to age 7, when we moved, leaving behind the only few friends I knew. (The remaining stories that I've been told prior to age 7 have been told to me by my family).

My dad uprooted his family in November of 1984, to move to a suburb of Wichita so he could be the minister at the local Christian church in town, about 4 blocks away from our new house.  I was 7 years old when we moved to Kansas. I met my new classmates in gym class. I was a VERY, very shy girl. So shy, that according to my dad, I 'hid' under my desk during kindergarten because I didn't want to be called upon to talk. So shy, my teachers at school didn't know how to 'handle' me because I was uncooperative with them.
I had what they now call Selective Mutism. The first day of school in this new town was brutal, but what made it worse was that I had an accident in my seat (because I was too shy to ask to use the restroom), was sent to the nurse's station for a change of clothes and on the way back to class, the bullying began.

My 2nd-4th grade years in school were a blur. Depression set in after we moved to KS. I never grew out of my shyness. The bullying continued throughout the years. Teachers were no help in controlling all the bad words being lashed & directed towards me.
During the summer months, my parents would pack up & head down to the farm, where I would spend countless hours building forts and tree houses, exploring the pasture lands, help in moving cattle, driving/riding the 3-wheeler, swimming in the stock tank, fishing down by the river...

I played not with my sisters, but more with my younger brother, in the dirt pile that sat by the garage. With cars, GI-Joe, and Transformers. A true tomboy. And since I didn't really play with girly things as a kid, I didn't really hang out with my cousins who lived down the pasture like my sisters did. I simply loved the outdoors and helping grandpa with the farm duties, until....

Starting at age 8, my grandfather started molesting/abusing me when we would come for a visit. It started in the old green pickup on the way to get a bale of hay. He commented on how cold his hands were (even though it was hot outside) and would stick them up my shirt. He knew that since I was the "quiet one" - I wouldn't tell. And I didn't.

Sure I tried a couple of times to get my dad's attention by crying when grandfather asked me to help, only to be told that I should, "honor thy mother & father." As the summer months and years went on, so did the abuse. It gradually got worse. Sometimes the abuse happened in the truck, on the 3-wheeler down in the bottom pasture out of sight, in the barn and a few other places. I learned how to dissociate, to go numb inside my body. I didn't feel anything, but I remember it all. To add to that pain, bullying became a horrible disease for me that didn’t go away, even when I told teachers. They did say something to the bullies, but in return it only got it worse. It didn’t matter where I tried to hide, they would always find me. And so, I put up barriers and wore masks to distance myself from other people - including my family.

  In 5th grade, I met my only friend in school in band. We both played the flute. While she was a friend that I could actually talk to, I felt bad for her wanting to be my friend, because she would have to endure the bullying as well. I spent a lot of time over at her house a mile away, because not only did I endure the verbal bullying at school, but at home as well – by my younger brother and sisters. We did what friends did – we hung out after school, went to church camp together, concerts. She tried really hard to teach me the game of chess, but I didn’t understand the game then and to this day, I still don’t understand the game.

Camp was my home away from home. I didn’t have to worry about the bullying. And it was my one week of freedom from my grandfather’s hands. Oh, how I loved going to camp. To go swimming, or float a tube down the Arkansas River, to go exploring in the woods, or sitting still and listening to the creek as it flowed. And at night, I loved to watch the bonfire flames as they danced around. And the fireflies. Some years were worse than others. I always seemed to do my own thing, to be alone. I was still quite shy. Didn't talk much to anyone, unless I was spoken to first. I learned that a long time ago. My freshman year of high school, I stepped forward to give my life to Christ for all the wrong reasons. My thought was that if I killed myself later, I would spend eternity with him. My dad came down and baptized me on a rainy day in the swimming pool on June 8, 1991. My thoughts at that time were that I wished I would have stayed underwater forever.

One day during 5^th grade, I was called into the school counselor's office because he noticed I "wasn't doing well.” He asked me what was going on. As much as I wanted to tell him, I knew I couldn’t because I learned at such a young age that I couldn’t trust anyone….anyone in a authority position. He in turn called my parents & told them that he was concerned about my grades and about my attitude in life. So, that began the whole mess with seeing counselors on a weekly basis. It first started off with Mr. Jay. Mr. Jay would try different ways to get me to talk to him - for example, playing Battleship and letting me win all the time, taking me to Dairy Queen for anything I wanted, going for walks. It bothered me when I would tell him some things, then he would turn around and talk to my mom about them, which in turn would come back to me through her. I learned that I couldn't trust him either, nor could I tell him how I really felt inside. Simply put….I hated life and I wanted to die, that I was so afraid of going to school because of all the bullying, about the abuse by my grandfather (which he had started touching my developing breasts, pulling on the nipples, saying, "the bigger they are, the better."); and that I cried myself to sleep either under my bed or in the closet every night. So, I began making up stories for him - 'normal' stories about girls having boyfriends and other friends than just my one.

One of the worst school years for me happened in the seventh grade. Ah the joys of Quest class....NOT! For those who don't know, Quest is basically a curriculum that focuses on seven skill-building units. In a nutshell, it's sharing & learning about yourself and others. And for a girl who was still shy and severely depressed, it was one of my worst classes in school. It was a class that I couldn't B.S. my way through. On that particular day, we were talking about improving peer relationships. The icebreaker game was tossing a ball to a classmate and then asking a question to another peer. I didn't want to participate. I just wanted to watch until I felt safe enough to play along, but the teacher wasn't going to have it. She told me to go down to the counselor's office and wait there until class was over. But, being the stubborn person I am, I refused. She literally dragged my chair (with me in it) out of the classroom. Told me that I was being uncooperative and closed the door behind me. I became so upset with her and the people around me, they just didn't understand. Feelings of shame, hatred, and anger filled my body.

And so, I headed to the girls bathroom where I proceeded to throw a punch that would break the mirror into pieces. While my fist was reeling in from the pain, I picked up a piece and without thinking about it, cut into my forearm. It felt exhilarating! I was set ablaze with rushed emotions, so I did it again and again. Not wanting to get into trouble, I headed to the corner stall where I stayed for the remainder of the day. My teachers never missed me because they didn't come looking for me. Thus began my years of self-injury behaviors.

It was also during this year that I thought out and planned my suicide. I figured life would be better on the other side of life than this one. But I never followed thru with it. All those years of being taught in church about ending one's life sends you to hell and not heaven - well, scared me more than dying.

While so many things happened that I would rather forget than remember, one single day stands out to be a memorable day. It happened one day when the whole 7th grade class took an overnight field trip. We slept in tents, had a campfire, and explored nature. I remember I didn't get to climb the highest hill in Kansas because a tree limb attached me and left a rather deep scratch under my left eye (which I still have today). It started bleeding and was escorted back to base camp. The EMT that had accompanied us on our trip put a butterfly closure on it and was told I wasn't allowed to join the rest of my classmates. When they got back from the hike, everyone started asking me about my eye. It was great because for the first time in my life the bullying ceased and I felt like a part of the group.

My hopes were high when my mom announced to me that I was going to stop seeing Mr. Jay. I was glad! I was running out of stories to tell him. I thought when I entered into high school that things would get better. But they didn’t. The bullying continued as did my self-injury. I not only cut myself, I would throw punches against the studs in the walls. I cut to drown out the awful pain I felt inside, to make sure I was still alive on the outside, even though I was living life in numbness. It was a year that I was fondled by one of my bullies during drafting class each day. He would take his shoes off and feel me up with his feet. I felt disgusted. I would move to a different table, but he followed. I would say something to the teacher, but it didn’t do anything. Only made it worse. And the molestation from my grandfather grew too.  I felt ashamed inside and out when my body enjoyed being touched by his hands.

In high school I had more freedoms, but really didn’t take advantage of them, because all I wanted to do was sleep…and die. I thought about death every day. I thought of different ways I could end it all. My parents never really saw (or wanted to see) the red flags in my life. I remember being compared to my other siblings…asking me why I couldn’t be more like them and why were my grades so low. It didn’t matter how much I studied, I always struggled with tests, and usually got near failing grades in every class. English class was my favorite class. When I could write stories, I felt free on the inside. And when we read stories, I would use my imagination and play out the stories inside my mind. When I couldn’t self-injure, the class was my way to escape.

To say the least, I questioned God in the midst of all my struggles with life - finally deciding that He really wasn't real and that His care was for everyone else but me. Yea sure, I attended youth group at church every Sunday night, but only because I had too. Neither the youth minister nor the volunteers were able to see through to the pain. My pain.
I remember a time when the youth group went to CIY in Boliver, MO for a week. Even when I didn't want to go, my parents made me go. As a group, we had a prayer circle each morning. When it came around to me, I tripped and stuttered over my words quietly with a simple prayer the first time; but kids can be mean & made fun of me the next morning when i started to pray. I gave up in trying to get my words out and stopped praying out loud. To this day, I still trip and stutter with words and would rather not pray out loud, even when asked to do so.

In my sophomore year, my dad bought a short bus from the school auction for $125. That would be my fake first car, and I had to share it with my older brother. Although we had some fun times in it - we took out most of the seats and would pretend to surf, it was quite embarrassing to drive around town. Even though we lived 2 blocks from school, I was forced to take my younger siblings to school every day. But it was another avenue in which to escape the world around me.  It was another hiding place, a safe place to run too when I thought I felt I couldn’t go on.

I was happy when in my junior year in high school my grandfather stopped molesting me after asking me a question in the barn. Apparently I didn’t answer it correctly and he stopped. Although he never touched me again, I wondered if he was hurting another sibling or cousin.

I was quite surprised when I graduated with my class in May 1995. I was sick and tired of being bullied day in and day out, that I wrote fake notes to get me out of class. I skipped school a lot! At least half the school year both in my junior and senior years. I had major depression episodes where all I wanted to do was sleep. And sleep I did. It wasn’t uncommon that I slept from sunup to sundown. I rarely watched TV or ate. Even though I prayed to God asking Him to take me away from this evil world, I was also angry at Him for allowing my grandfather to hurt me in so many ways. I questioned how a man of God, an elder in the church, could do such a thing.

College Years

I attended Ozark Christian College in Joplin, Missouri, because I wanted to follow in my dad's footsteps and also because I thought by doing so, would have those beloved words my dad often said to my siblings, but never to me. “I’m proud of you.”

Before going, my dad bought me my first ‘real’ car. A white, 2 door Buick Regal with mag. wheels. It didn't have a muffler, so it was loud. So loud that the neighbors knew who was coming and going. The friends I made at college named it the "Screamin' Onion". We laugh about it now.

The depression in college came more than it went. I was struggling with classes from the get-go and would often find myself in the Study Skills class. I was still self-injuring. I worked as a on-campus custodian (and made $5.15/hr). And made friends with my first roommate. We shared the same birthday, but she was an year older than me. Soon I met her other friends and we were inseparable. On many occasions, I would find myself traveling with one or more of them to their hometown and staying at their home. Their parents had graciously allowed me to enter into their world and become a part of it.

In the summer of 1996, I learned that my grandfather had had stage 3 leukemia and the doctors couldn’t do anything about it, as the chemo would have killed him. So off to High Hill Christian Camp in High Hill, MO. I went with my roommate and 2 others from O.C.C. I was a paid employee to help work in the kitchen as well as the canteen and absolutely loved being there. And the kids who came loved it too. On the weekends, we would travel to St. Louis and shop. Of all the places in St. Louis to visit; my favorite place was a discount book store.

My grandfather passed away on July 17, 1996. Although I was sad, I was also happy because he would never hurt me again. I never got to tell him that I forgave him. And after the funeral, I headed to back to camp to finish off the season.

Problems really arose during my 2^nd year at Ozark. One of my friends sat me down and explained to me that she was a multiple, now referred to as Dissociative Identity Disorder. It was difficult to hear and to understand, but I was strongly aware of when she changed personalities. I enjoyed being a child and coloring, playing alongside her child personalities. It was frightening when she was driving and they would switch and then suddenly the new person wouldn't know how to drive a standard. She worked in the library, so one day, she summoned us to watch “Sybil” in the video room. She failed to mention it was an ‘R’ rated movie. And that it was not allowed on campus. That got us all into trouble by the Dean of Students. One by one, we were called into his office. He called me a liar and told me not to do it again. I later learned that I had told him a different story than my other 2 friends.

By that time, I had settled into Deaf Communications as my degree of choice. I was a slow learner, but thankfully, my teacher was patient with me and helped me learn. I never really got over my shyness and the anxiety that surrounded it. I did okay with my signing until I had to stand up and interpret in chapel/church, then my anxiety level would skyrocket and I would freeze or flip out. I remember a group of us from class went to Tulsa, OK for Week of Evangelism to work with a deaf church down there. We held VBS for deaf kids. Who can say they interpreted an entire Veggie Tales video. We also went ice-skating and had great fellowship with the folks. They are very patient people to new learners of their language.

One day while at college, I was called into the school counselor’s office after taking a pair of shoes. I had found them in the trash and I justified that since they were in the trash, they were another man’s treasure. Like the last time I was called into a counselor’s office in middle school, she was concerned about me. She wanted to know all about me, but I could not let her into my world. She seemed disappointed in me when I told her that I couldn’t trust her. She in turn asked me why. I sat there motionless and quiet, wishing I was anywhere else but there. Turned out, the shoes that I had found, were placed in the wrong place and that I had to return them. I returned them to her, went back to my room, locked it, and cut until I felt satisfied enough. After this incident happened, I was accused for many different things disappearing – things that were of no importance to me.

After my first roommate graduated, I roomed with one of my other friends. Although she never really came out and told me, I learned too that she was a cutter. I would often find our door locked and she telling me to wait. And then finding an alcohol pad in the trash covered with blood. Here we were, two friends who shared the same secret about cutting, but ashamed to tell each other. It just reiterated that what I was doing to my body was okay.

In the summer of 1997, I lived with my grandma on the farm and drove into work every morning at 1:30 am to make donuts. It wasn’t a great job, but it was a job. While there, Les, a co-worker, asked me if I ever played golf. I said yes, that I loved to play. He asked me to come play some time with him. As much as I wanted to go with him, I was afraid of what he might do. So I turned him down every time. A year later, he had to resign due to medical reasons from the store. By that time, he was married and had one small child.

In October of 1997, I got kicked out of Ozark for stealing and moved home. Worst thing about it was that I had to tell my parents and my roommate. And the hardest thing I had to do – leave without saying goodbye to my beloved friends. I finally realized that these people who had opened up their hearts & homes to me weren't out to hurt me – but loved me for who I was, no matter the circumstances. They truly were friends. I stayed in touch with them after the ordeal, learning how to use email for the first time. I spent time with them one week during the summer in Tulsa.

In November 1997, I started working at Hobby Lobby in the frame shop. I quickly became friends with one the older gals and to this day, I still go in and harass her. I worked for Hobby Lobby, transferring from Wichita, KS to Joplin, Mo to Springdale, AR til I got fired for eating a rice crispy bar without paying for it (hey, my blood sugar was low & I didn't have money) in September 2002. It didn't help that I here I was, a cutter, and all around me were sharp things in which to do some major damage to myself. I was questioned a few times about where I got the cuts on my arms. I made up excuses to settle their wondering minds.

As a request from my parents, I returned to counseling in 1998, to deal with the letter to which I had written my parents explaining why I had gotten kicked out of school. They suggested I see the two counselors that were at our church. I did….just to satisfy my parents’ wishes.
One of the counselors was a guy and I felt very uncomfortable around him. They asked me to share with them the names I was called throughout my childhood days and about the fondling that took place at school. While I wrote down a few of the names I’d been called, I couldn't speak them, nor could I give the list of names to them. I ended up burning the page after leaving the session. And I couldn't do the latter, not without bringing out all the pain I received from my grandfather too.
After 4 sessions, I quit seeing them. I didn't trust them, nor could I trust them. They knew my parents. And somehow, either they asked my dad about me or my dad asked them about me – I don’t know; but my dad asked me why I had stopped seeing them. I told him he wouldn't understand. And that was that.

Also in ’98, my second roommate at Ozark, wrote me a letter stating that she left school because she had feelings and had actually kissed another girl. That she was declaring herself to be a lesbian. I didn't really know what to say to her, except to say that I would still be a friend.   After finding out the news through the letter, it made me uncomfortable to think about all the times I had undressed and changed in our room together. I didn't want to be any part of that for I knew it was wrong.

In 2000, I packed up my things and moved in with my D.I.D. friend from O.C.C. in Joplin, MO. She had rented a nice 3 bedroom, 2 bath house and needed a roommate. I was happy that I would get the chance to build our friendship. I would go with her many times to her therapy appointments in Springfield, so if she ‘switched,’ I would be there to drive her home. She would spend money on me. She corrupted me into drinking alcohol. I learned a lot about her. She loved to write music and poetry, plant flowers, and she loved to laugh. It wasn’t all fun & games. There were things that she did that worried me – like disappearing for days without a phone call, or did other things that would make me upset. I mostly ignored her on those days.

I moved with her, when she decided to move to Siloam Springs, Arkansas to be closer to her family. I enjoyed being welcomed into her family of aunts & uncles, cousins, and grandparents. I could talk to her grandma when I was feeling down knowing that she wouldn’t tell my friend what I had said. Also, during this time, my friend had transferred to another school online and talked me into attending as well. It was called Southern Christian University in Montgomery, AL.

One day in the summer months, my friend asked me if I would attend a church with her in Sand Springs, AR. She said it was for a research paper she was writing. I felt no harm in joining her, until about ¾ of the way there, she mentioned to me that it was a church for lesbians. And it was. Everything that the pastor said went against what was in the Bible. I could sense evil all around me and I immediately left the building. I sat out in the car from over an hour waiting for my friend to return. When she did, she apologized for not telling me before we left. She then treated me to a tiny little Italian place and then went and bought a leather jacket. She tried to buy me one too, but I refused. All I wanted was to put the incident behind me and leave.

Prior to purchasing my own computer, I would often use my friends’ computer to do school work. Well, one day as I was typing a paper, an email from her friend popped up asking her if she had had any luck with me. 'Luck?' About what I asked myself. Curious, I opened the email and read (from my friend), “that she was still working on me.” I had to double read what I had read, knowing that I couldn’t bring it to light with my friend because I had stepped over the boundary by reading the email in the first place. Oh man was I pissed. I knew she was dating other women in the community. And I knew that she was telling her girlfriends that ‘she was working on me’ because a few of her girlfriends would nonchalantly ask me out. It was then when I started questioning my own gender identity. Here I was, two of my best friends from Ozark admitted they indeed love other women. What? Was I next? It was then that my life truly took a tailspin dive into uncertainty.

Things changed for the worse when she decided to let her mother come and live with us. Our house was definitely not big enough, so in February 2002, we moved to Springdale, AR. The strain her mom put on me was horrible. They both entrusted me to feed their animals, mow the lawn, keep the weeds out of the flower beds, plant new flowers, take out the trash, and so much more. I constantly heard from her mom that she couldn’t do it because she was ungraceful when walking, even though she walked everywhere. And that my friend couldn’t do it because she had a bad heart and wasn’t supposed to strain it. In some way, I felt like Cinderella and my friend and her mom were the sister and wicked step-mother.

In October 2002, I was out driving on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, when I had the urge to end it all. I pushed on the gas and took off, traveling to about 70 mph and aiming for a large Oak tree…but at the last minute told myself this wasn’t the way to do it and swerved, missing the tree by a few feet. With my heart pounding inside my chest, I cried out to a God I didn’t want to know. When I arrived home, I was shaking. My friend had started a fire out in the chiminea. It was where I came out and rocked back and forth quietly for the longest time. My friend finally asked me what was going on and so I proceeded to tell her what I had attempted to do earlier that day. She got up and left. (I now know that she went and called my parents). It was there in that moment that I realized that I couldn’t stand life anymore, that I couldn’t be her friend anymore, and that I needed to go home.

Seeing my parents arrive to take me home was a blessing. I was so stressed out that I had hives all over my body. I left Springdale on a bad note, both with my friend and more especially with her mom. Her mom told me she wanted her money for the late rent and bills, which I had already paid on time – to my friend – since the agreement was between her and me, and not her mom.

My parents asked me to return to counseling in January 2003, but I refused. Told them I couldn’t afford to pay for it, which was true. They never learned that I was fired from HobLob, only that I had quit.

I started working for Heartspring in February 2003 as a Para in the group homes. I enjoyed working there. When I first started, I had one of the toughest kids at the school. He had to wear a foam helmet because he would beat his head against anything that was hard, including you if you weren’t careful. He would also punch, kick, pull hair, and pinch when he didn’t get his own way. Every other day, I put on catcher gear to protect myself from his angry ways. There were other students that I worked with too. Another student hit me so hard in the head that I fell to the ground. I didn’t have time to react. He was a wrestler and in the end, it took 15 other people to hold him down in a restraint. He was transported to the psych ward only to be released a short time later back to Heartspring. He thankfully returned after my shift was over. And I put in a request not to work with him again.

I left Heartspring in August 2003 to move to Oklahoma to live with my grandma until I found a house in which to live. I found work at a local daycare center, working as a pre-k teacher. The year went on. I was still cutting, but not so much. Depression episodes went in waves. Family holidays were tough. I always felt out of place. Like I’m the ugly duckling or the black sheep of the family. My December birthday comes and goes.. This Christmas, however, was different. While I’m not quite sure when my 5 year old cousin was diagnosed with leukemia, she passed on to heaven just two days after Christmas. My grandma was devastated. According to her, my cousin was her only great-grandchild (which in fact she had 3 others). After the funeral, my grandma said some angry words to me that I was trying to ‘control her life.’ It hurt. A lot. So I wrote her a note, dropped it under her door and left to go to the movies. It was probably a good thing that my parents were there, otherwise, I probably would have been kicked out of her house permanently.

A year passes. I receive a .25 raise at work, only to be fired once again 5 months later of an incident that was beyond my control. So after I had loaded my cheery classroom items into my car, I headed to the church to bawl my eyes out. It was a safe place for me to go. Sure there were people there, but not very many. And most of the time, they didn’t even know I was there. Another firing, another wall built. I was beginning to think this was going to be a trend. One night when I was at church, I reached out and emailed Focus on the Family. A few days passed and I was surprised when they called me back to talk. The person on the other end was caring and kind. He put me in touch with a lady from Idaho who, like me, had dealt with similar problems and had already gone through all the pain and was now free from it. She mentioned something about going to a program each week called Celebrate Recovery. And it’s for those who have dealt with hurt, habits, and hang-ups. She encouraged me to find and attend a CR nearby. Although I still asked her certain questions about different things, I blew off going to CR.

A month later, I was hired at Target as a night-stocker. I worked mainly in soft lines with the clothes. Almost every article of clothing was wrapped in plastic, which had to come off and then hung up on hangers. It was a very mundane task. To make it worse, each department had a time limit and it had to be finished within that set time, otherwise there was hell to pay. I starting training other newbies within 90 days of my own hiring, which I felt wasn’t right. While it paid well because I worked overnight, my boss and I didn’t get along too well. We had almost the same personalities yet she came from a military family. She did everything that I kindly asked not to do – to set boundaries. And so I asked to be transferred to morning hours in the shipping & receiving department.

On December 22, 2004, I signed on my house and was moved in before Christmas. I was so excited to be moving out of grandma’s house. Little did I know that I was beginning to fall into a very deep depression. Living alone in a house brought many fears. So to help with those fears, I got a puppy that I had trained. A full blooded black lab and I named her Zoey. At first Z stayed inside the house when I was home, then I kenneled her when I went to work. Then as she grew bigger, I left her out during the times I was gone. That only brought more problems – mostly chewing & urinating problems – things I could deal with. She eventually ended up outside in her dog run. And even though I had a dog for protection, I found that I had a really hard sleeping because of night terrors and nightmares. I would be drenched in sweat, exhausted, and I’d often sleep with a light on. During the day, I would get angry at the littlest things. Go into a rage and throw something. Sometimes, I would hit Z in frustration, only to regret it after I had done it. And make up for it right then and there. Thankfully, Z always came back for a snuggle or two.

As always, the holidays came and went. I didn’t care about them. I spent many, many days hiding at the church, even sleeping there overnight because I didn’t feel safe at my house. Somehow, I justified that if I were in church, then the devil couldn’t harm me. And when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I finally got the nerve to talk. It was on February 9, 2005, when I confessed to my minister about my cutting and that I wanted to stop. I also told him that the night before while watching television, a thought popped into my head saying that I could hang myself and no one would take notice til I was long gone. He tried to lay his hand on my wrist, but I retreated. He didn’t know that I had a fresh cut there. I was so very numb inside. And he said he knew of someone who could possibly help me. She was in Stillwater. To finalize it, I gave him one of my blades; thinking if I gave it to him, he would actually believe me. I also knew that the moment I stepped outside those doors, that I would end up cutting. While my minister was waiting for the counselor in Stillwater to call back, he asked me if it was okay for him to call a few of the elders to pray for me. I told him not to mention it to anyone in my family, as they wouldn’t understand and would judge me even more. He also asked me if it hurt when I self-injured and my response was, “No. I’m so numb inside that I don’t feel it on the outside.” Before I left, I promised to him that I would be okay. As far as calling the elders, he called just my associate pastor (a.p.) and filled him in on the situation. Both my a.p. and the counselor called me later that evening. I was grateful for the church during this difficult time, as they helped pay for my counseling sessions.

The next day, I went to see the counselor in Stillwater. She asked me about my cuts and wanted to see them. I couldn’t show her because I was ashamed of what they had become to me. She also wanted me to explain to her what I had told my minister. And at the end of the session, she asked me who had hurt me. I sat there awhile thinking whether or not I should tell her. And in the end, I figured what the heck, she didn’t know my parents….so I told her. At the end of the first session, she drew up a contract stating that while I was seeing her, I couldn't self-injure. I told her I would do my best for that’s all I could give her. I signed it.

In the following months, talking about everything was difficult. My depression well, stayed around. My counselor diagnosed me with PTSD and Major Depressive Disorder. In August of 2005, I quit Target and was hired as the secretary at my church. I couldn’t complain, because I was working part-time but getting paid full-time. My boss at Target had stepped over the last boundary that I had requested she not do. So I left a very long letter to her and her boss stating why I had left. I found out later that she was given the option of resigning or transferring to another store. She transferred to a store out of state.

I continued to see my counselor at least twice a week over the next five months. Then gradually, I saw her only weekly, and then monthly until it was agreed that there wasn’t much more she could do for me unless I opened up more about the abuse and shared the hardest details with her. She understood when I told her that I couldn’t, that it’s wasn’t time So, it was in October ‘05 that I stopped seeing her and moved on with my life.

A month prior to stopping seeing my counselor, I got a second job working with clients with mental, physical, and developmental disorders. My passion has always been working with special needs children. I fell in love with my first client and his family. They would take me on trips to be a ‘nanny’ for him and his baby sister. We went everywhere…to Pensacola, Florida; New Orleans, Louisiana; Kentucky and North Carolina. I was so grateful for them and their kindness that they showed to me. I worked with him for a little over 3 years and saw improvements. It excited me to see that I had a part in his change.

In May 2006, I finally graduated college with a B.S. degree in Bible/Ministry, after taking many months on and off of school. I decided that I would travel to Montgomery, AL to walk with my other classmates and I’m so thankful that my parents joined me on my travels. Afterwards, when I heard my dad finally say those four beautiful words, “I’m proud of you,” nothing else in life mattered. I had waited a very long time to hear those words.

Much of 2007 was a blur. I was cutting again and depressed. Isolation occurred almost daily unless a friend dragged me out of my house. I justified taking money from the church – telling myself I needed it and I would pay it back (which I did). I quit my church job and eventually my second job in 2008 when I was hired on at a quality control company that worked with mortgage companies. I would be detecting fraud on appraisals. I thought I was doing the right thing to better myself in the world. Here I would get paid more and have full coverage insurance that the company paid for.   And when my insurance kicked in, I made the decision to return to counseling once more because I was cutting much deeper than usual and it scared me that I couldn’t feel the pain.

A year later, I was fired from my job because I was taking a break at my desk – which there wasn’t anything in the handbook against it. Well, the vice president thought I was stealing company time and I was fired for it. It made me angry beyond words. I was to meet an life insurance agent the day I was fired and although I was reluctant to go, I went anyway to explain to him why I couldn’t buy life insurance at that time. He was a blessing in disguise and told me a little about his life and invited me to a place where I could feel safe. It was called Celebrate Recovery he said. I told him about the lady who had mentioned it to me earlier in life and that I blew it off.   He was persistent and invited me to join him on the following Thursday, as he would be giving his testimony. And so, one week later, I showed up for CR at MRCC to listen to his testimony, only to learn that I had missed it. He had gotten his dates mixed up. I questioned and felt very out of place in a church that didn’t have instruments. So I searched the internet until I found another CR at a church closer to home, but yet far enough away from my friends and family knowing about it. And so, in October of 2009, I started attending CR at HHBC, using my nickname as my real name and wore a mask until I felt safe enough to share who I really was. I didn’t talk much to anyone…unless I was spoken to first. That was the engraved rule in my world.

Since I was unemployed for 6 months after getting fired from my previous employer, I found myself volunteering in all different areas of CR – getting to know the lay of the land. Little by little, I began to come out and play with the others. To talk and smile more, but inside I still had walls built. I continued on with counseling, first starting off with a male counselor that I had heard on my radio every Thursday morning. I called his office and his secretary set the appointment. Eventually my insurance ran out, and was told I could not see him anymore. However, I was told that he had an intern that would work with me on a sliding scale. I was desperate to stop the memories inside my head, so I began working with the intern. She was quiet. I told her upfront that if she wanted me to talk, she would have to ask me questions. And so we talked. A little at a time I told myself. Not too fast. Don’t spill it all at once I told myself out of fear that she may not be qualified enough to work with me.

In March 2010, I was so desperate for a job that I took a CNA training course from OSU-OKC because they offered it for free in return for 2 years of work in a nursing home. The class in general was fun. I was surprised to learn that I had graduated in the top percentage of my class, which made me ecstatic! I took an overnight nursing home job in Guthrie on April 7, 2010. I thought it would be easy since I loved to be around older folks and most of my friends were older than me. I also loved to hear their stories about pastimes and whatnots. I worked there for 2 months and then had to quit because I couldn’t work with men. I was dissociating a lot and was cutting more and more. I explained to one of my co-workers why I couldn’t work with the men anymore and we switched whenever I had to work with them. My head nurse found out and asked me why. And so I told her. I was told by her that I was incompetent to do my job that I had been hired for. I was angry, ashamed, and actually felt pain inside.

I was continuing to see my new therapist-in-training as all this was going on. My depression worsened. I would tell her about my nightmares. She helped me create a ‘safe’ box for every time I wanted to run and hide and cut – which was often. Every week, she asked me for my blades. She didn’t ask me to sign a contract to stop cutting, but she did ask that I call her each time before cutting. Some days I did, and other days, I didn’t. We talked about almost everything. She helped me build a support team from the people at CR, which I was still attending every Monday night. It took me long, long time to trust the people at Celebrate Recovery, especially the minister and his wife, but I eventually came around. I made friends. I stepped way out of my comfort zone and joined a women’s step-study group. Things were going pretty good for awhile. I wasn’t as depressed as I had been. And like always, what goes up must come down. Enter flashbacks, frozen with fear, pain, numbness, hatred of me, dirtiness inside, must end it all.

I wanted to truly end it all in June 2010. I had the plan and the means to do so. It was all arranged. And if I hadn't gone to my counselor that fateful day, I probably wouldn't be here to tell my story. After conferring with her mentor, she came back and told me that I had 2 options to choose from. Either go to the Crisis Intervention Center in OKC with a friend driving me or she would have to call the police to come get me. And since I didn't want to get the police involved, I called a friend that I had trusted, told her what was going on and what I needed her to do. She came and got me and after dropping off my car at her house, we left. I was scared. I’d heard stories about those places and now I was going to one. I spent 6 long, heavily medicated days in the crisis center - having not ever been in one of those places before, I didn't know what to expect. I slept the majority of the time I was in there. I rarely ate the food that was prepared for me there. Thankfully, I had friends that would bring me real food from the real outdoor world. And then one day, one of my friends brought me art stuff - and I got busy. They wanted to keep me an extra day, but I wasn't going for it and signed out against medical advice.

Unbeknownst to me, the minister at CR was working on getting me into a inpatient treatment center in Arizona on a scholarship. The treatment center not only worked with clients with drug & alcohol addictions, it also worked with clients who had trauma issues. They all agreed and it was set. Now all they needed to do, was present it to me.

Soon after my release from the CI center, the minister called and asked me to meet him and his wife at their house on day in the last week of June. The minister caringly described to me what he thinks about my trauma – that while most people go through life with little “t’ trauma, I’d been dealing with big ‘T’ trauma all my life and that he had found someone to help me deal with it. At first, I didn’t want to accept it, because I knew of other friends that could have used it. But after those friends persuaded me to accept it, I did. Speaking of friends, I was not allowed to sleep at home alone. I was to spend the night at someone’s house at all times until I left for AZ. That made me feel even more inadequate inside because I couldn't fully take care of myself.

He asked me what day I wanted to go. I told him it would have to be after the 4^th of July because my family throws one hell of a party (without alcohol) each year out on the farm and I’d already been roped into helping. Plus, I needed to tell my parents about the decision & all the stuff that had happened over the last few months.

The following day after the 4^th, I told my parents that I needed to talk to them in person and they agreed to come to my house early the next morning. I told them about my cutting issues and my stay in the CI center in OKC. I also told them about my decision to go out to Arizona for help. I asked them if they could afford to help pay my mortgage and my car payment. And if they couldn't, I would rather lose the car than the house.

The Old has Gone…and the New Has Come

Then on July 10, 2010, I headed off to my first (and hopefully last) treatment center where I got the help I needed. I arrived at Decision Point a shy, frightened, anxious, and depressed church mouse. From the day I arrived, I finally had people who would listen to me. In the beginning week of treatment, I met with a psychiatrist who indeed diagnosed me with PTSD, Recurrent Major Depressive Disorder, and Anxiety Disorder - NOS, and prescribed new medications for my anxiety and depression, as well as prescribing a sleeping aide that I could take when I felt I needed to.

The two apartment style dwellings held men on one side of the fence and women on the other side. The ‘center’ was a mere 4 blocks away from the apartments. And in the early stages of recovery, we had to ride to and from the apartments in vans for just about anything. We also had to attend an AA meeting each and every day, whether out in the community during the weekdays or as a group in the managers’ suite on the weekends. To be honest, I found it to be very boring. We were to follow the schedule at all times unless we had appointments with our therapist. There were a few times I bailed out on the schedule thinking that no one would notice. Boy was I wrong.

I was put into a group of other newbies whose group leader was a male. At first, I was hesitant to look at him, let alone talk to him. He knew about my cutting issues and told me that I didn't have to stop if I didn't want to. He knew that I would stop when the time was right. I soon discovered that he wore his heart on his shoulders and was a good guy. There were days in the late evening hours, when I contemplated cutting myself on the deck of my apartment, I heard his concern in his voice about the scars I would leave behind if I so chose to take a part in my actions. When he would laugh or smile at me and try to get me to do the same. I became a part of his group for about a month. He made such an impression on my soul that I couldn't erase then and still can’t to this day. Soon, it came time for him to split us up according to our addictions/problems. That meant I had to trust yet another person. It was hard to leave that group not knowing how trustworthy the next one would be.

Even though I didn't talk very much in my new I grew group, I learned to like them. They would be my group for the majority of my time spent at DP. The people in the groups were always changing, as people come and go each week. One of my two group leaders also became my regular therapist on top of my trauma therapist. One day, I asked my therapist if I could attend CR on Thursday and church on Sunday as one of my meetings. Not being a Christian treatment center, they hesitated at first because no one had ever asked them that before. And after a talk with all my other therapists, they agreed that I could. I was happy and scared all at the same time. In the end, they saw that Christ could mend something broken into something beautiful.

It took me awhile to start opening up – more than what the scholarship was worth. I was grateful for receiving it in the first place. I decided that after the scholarship money ran out, I was going to stay until I felt I was ready to face the world again. Thankfully, I was in the right place. And eventually, I gave up on trying to control the madness within and broken down and shared my thoughts, feelings, and the horrible pictures that played in my mind. I spoke of words that I was called by my bullies and released them from my soul.

While I was there, I was fortunate to have a chance to be a part of the art therapy group at a treatment center in Arizona. Unfortunately though, it was cut due to the lack of participation and cooperation from other clients. I enjoyed a lot and it helped me to put my words onto and into projects, which helped me explain what it was in therapy. Art and poetry have always been a part of my life. After all, it was, (along with books) a way I could get ‘lost’ inside myself.

I really liked it when we got the chance to go rock climbing/repelling. It was another chance to put a fear to shame. It was ‘DARE’ week during my freshman year at high school camp. They had gotten permission to repel off the Arkansas River bridge. I went three different times thinking I could overcome my fear, but on the last time, another youth group leader, who was belaying, told me that I was, basically, a sissy, that he wouldn't help me over the ledge, that I was wasting his time, and told me to move over for someone who could actually repel off the bridge. Well, I have words to that youth group leader….booyah! I scaled up and then down 70 feet!

I also had the amazing opportunity to take part of Equine Therapy, otherwise known as hippo-therapy (horse therapy). And at first, I was scared out of my mind to step foot in the arena. But as the weeks went on, my bravery showed, and I gradually went further and further out into the arena. There I met a horse. A horse like me. A horse that had trust issues. And had been hurt. I knew how he felt. Took him a little while to trust me…but I never gave up on him. I protected him and he protected me. And so we bonded. That bond strengthened. He gained love and respect, as did I. And today, I miss him dearly for the love and bond we shared together. I’ve heard great things since working with Bolero. Great things like he’s no longer the frightened horse in the arena, but the free-spirited one.

My first group leader was right, I would eventually stop cutting when the time was right. I gave cutting and burning on January 11, 2011.

In February 2011, after 8 months of therapy, I graduated the program. My life and its feeding frenzy finally started to settle down. I moved back home to live with my parents until I could stand on my own two feet again. It was a new world for me. I never imagined in my life that I would be able to have a "calmer" side to life. I’m no longer that shy and timid church mouse. No, I’m a free-spirited, loving life church mouse!

I was hired on again at Heartspring as an Intensive Individual Support Provider in April 2011. I currently work with children with the Autism Spectrum Disorder and loving every moment of it. It's challenging and rewarding altogether - it keeps me busy. Busy enough to take my mind off of me and give it to someone else.

2013 Update:

I’m proud to say that it’s been 2 years, 5 months, and 23 days since the last time I self-injured, but who’s counting. Sometimes, I find myself thinking about the past and what may have become of it, if the friends that I love and trusted hadn't stepped in at the right time. I was caught up in my past life, the abuse, the bullying, the PTSD, depression, anxiety, and more. But by the grace of God, He has set me free! And yes, I still think about cutting when life gets too difficult to handle. It’s when I pick up my phone and call or text someone, get myself busy and start working on craft projects, or go for a walk. I know I must get myself out of that rut otherwise; I will be sucked back down.

I've lost quite a few friends that I made while at D.P. due to the raging addictions of drugs and alcohol. Getting a big head and thinking that one more shot or one more drink won't hurt. Losing two of them that I connected to the most has been on the hardest things I have had to deal with after leaving Arizona, as they were both way too young to leave this world. They left behind countless numbers of friends and families.

While I don’t have current clients at Heartspring, it gives me a chance to have good times with my best friends. The world is beautiful when you let it come.

2014 Update:

Many things have changed since I wrote this. I moved to Oklahoma City in Oct. 2013 to accept a full time position at the American Cancer Society. I am currently working at ACS as a Sr. Data Capture Associate II (a fancy title for data entry) in patient information. While I do love my job, it's hours and the people I get to work with, it can be sad & tedious.

My best friend from childhood has gotten married and we have gone our separate ways. I knew it would happen. I tried to set a boundary with her while she was dating, but to no avail she talked me out of it - saying that our friendship would live on even after the marriage. I knew better. So now, I feel as if I've been abandoned. Don't get me wrong, I do have other friends, just not as close.

Issues with self-worth & depression, or therefore, lack of self-worth have taken a hold of me. I'm trying to find yet another therapist to help walk with me through this. Thoughts of cutting have been rampant for the last week and a half. Just a little scratch I say to myself - surely that won't count. But it does. I've been clean for 3 years, 8 mos, and 4 days. I've tried cycling again, but it seems like a failure to me. Something that I once loved, has been lost. I'm trying to find it - the love - again.

I've lost 4 more people that have been a part of my life. One introduced me to Hippo-therapy and allowed me to fall in love with the horse named Bolero. She passed away from a stroke last November 2013. She will forever have a part in my life. On April 27th, I lost my grandma. I knew that in advance that she wasn't doing good, as she's been at 30% heart function for many years. It was inevitable, I knew that. But that doesn't help with the pain and the heartache. And on Jun 18, 2014, I lost another friend from D.P. She was a roommate and had an contagious smile. She had such a loving & caring quality about her. I hope her spirit finds what she was looking for. And finally, I lost a uncle on my mom's side. One that I feel bad for not visiting more often. My mom was the only 'real' person of the family who knew him. Sure, I'd go visit him when I was with her; but that wasn't enough and I feel guilty for it. His body cremated, no service, no words of love to fill that void. Only death.

And so, I believe that I've lost a part of myself overall. The love of life is gone....for now. I still find myself questioning the One who made me in all this mess....to say that I've had a steady relationship with Him from the get-go...well, would be lying. My relationship with Him has been rocky. It's been a rather slow progress. I still find myself envious of other people's faith; wishing too that I had their similar faith - a faith deeply rooted in Him.

Within the past year, I've had a major falling out with a church here in Edmond - one that I had been a part of for many years. It too, has added not only to the questioning of my faith, but to the Christian people as a whole. How do I trust the minister/leaders of a church again? I've been hurt by an elder of a Christian church and now I was deeply hurt by this church & its leaders. How do I get past this? Day by day, hour by hour...trying to believe in the One who created me. Since the falling out, I have been going off and on to numerous other churches in the OKC/Edmond area. It will take time to forgive them, but I know its something I must do in order to go forward.

blue skies and new skies

Friday, July 26, 2013

Who am I in Christ?

Thursday, July 4, 2013

The Bad, the Good, & the Grateful