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 5th 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 2nd
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 4th
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 4th, 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.
