Chains of the Past

The thought of perfection has been heavy on my heart lately. I know better than anyone that my life has been nowhere near perfect. I also knew that I was loved by God unconditionally. But for some reason, I still held onto this belief that I needed to be perfect to somehow win His love. I prayed and prayed over this idea. Then months later, all at once, I got my answers from three different sources. My small group leader just happened to be talking about repentance and how none of us are perfect, but we can be forgiven. The message in big service was "Good people don't go to heaven, forgiven people do." I was also reading a book that had a strong message about perfection. Going along with this, I decided to work on this being forgiven thing. I had no idea how to do that or what you were supposed to feel. I've heard so many people say that they heard the voice of God or physically felt a weight lifted. This was not the case for me. There was no sound, there was no lifted weight. What there was, was tears. Tears that for once came from joy and peace rather than pain. Recently, the tears haven't been so joyful. My biggest downfall is lust. Until a few months ago, it was all I knew of love. Lust had me chained and I doubted even God could save me from that. In my prayers, I told him I was laying it at His feet. In my heart, I knew I was still holding my sin nice and tight. Why would I want to let go of the one thing that made me feel loved, wanted, anything but worthless? Today I woke up knowing I had to break free from that. I set out to write a new, extended testimony from the one that I sent Shannon. For the past hour I have been weaving the two together. I'm sharing not because I want sympathy or pity, but because sharing what God has done for me, and continues to do, makes all that more real to me. It's hard to really understand or even believe until you see the truth right there in black and white. I'm warning you, this is a bit lengthy, but this is my story.

When I was little, I lived with my mom, my real father, my sister and my brother in Massachusetts. My brother was pretty much my best friend. My sister was a drug addict. My father was (is) an alcoholic. My mom and my sister fought a lot, violent fights. Broken windows, broken walls, broken bones. My parents fought a lot too. My father was always telling my mom that she was worthless and should just go kill herself. Then they got divorced and my mom moved out here with my step-dad. My sister was living on the streets. My brother was my dad's favorite. So all his anger got taken out on me. I grew up thinking I was a worthless slut because I was told that so many times. Finally I moved out.

I came out here in time to start eighth at Kastner. I knew no one. the only person nice to me was this goth girl Shana. I slowly moved into that group. I went from looking like a porcelain doll, all sweet and innocent dressed nice, every day to ripped jeans and black shirts. Bracelets were replaced with bandages when they showed me how good it felt to run a blade along my wrist.

Then I met Ian. I thought he was the best thing to have ever happened to me. He was all I knew of love. He beat me, cheated on me, and introduced me to a world of drugs. He ended up moving away which just made it worse. Not only was my boyfriend gone, but so was my only connection for drugs or alcohol. I had to meet people. Fast. So I started chilling with his old group more. Ended up meeting this 22-year-old, Steve, who took "real good" care of me. (Mind you I was 14 at the time.) I was never sober. I was never alone. Then the one thing I thought was impossible happened. Steve was out of town. I was sitting at the park, high like usual, and this guy Joe that I was cool with sat down next to me. We were just talking and I vaguely remembering leaning on him because I could barely sit up. Then I felt something on my stomach. I pushed his hand away, but he grabbed my wrists and gave me the scariest look I've ever seen. I started to cry as he bit my lip and put and his hand between my legs. For an hour my "friends" listened to me scream and cry and they did nothing. I walked back to RiverPark alone and just sat outside Borders for the rest of the night.

I never went back to the park. Everyone stopped talking to me. You would think that would've sobered me up and I would be fine. Nope. I had to find new connections. Now that I truly believed I was just a worthless slut, (after all if Joe said I asked for it, I must have) I started shamelessly adding all the coke addicts I knew on MySpace, mostly scene guys. I lost contact with Ian because I was so lost in a world of chasing drugs and "love." Then on October 23, 2005 I got the one of the worst phone calls of my life. Ian had killed himself. I shut down completely. I didn't sleep for weeks, just cried. I was about to call him the night before that, but for some reason or another, I decided not to. I blamed myself for his death.

Drugs weren't good enough anymore. I need something to completely numb me. Back to the blade. My wrists were cut up so bad that most of the time I couldn't move my hands. Sometimes, I couldn't even feel my fingers.

Months went by in a total blur. Nights of drug-induced bliss were followed by crawling into church hung-over so that my parents wouldn’t notice. “Sunday Morning Coming Down” by Johnny Cash was my theme song. The chorus and third verse summed up how I felt about life in my darkest days:

Chorus:
On a Sunday morning sidewalk
I'm wishing Lord that I was stoned
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin'
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of a sleepin' city sidewalk
And Sunday mornin' comin' down.

Verse 3:
In the park I saw a daddy
With a laughin' little girl who he was swingin'
And I stopped beside a Sunday school
And listened to the songs they were singin'
Then I headed down the street
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin'
And it echoed thru the canyon
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.

I related my life to Walk the Line and “To Write Love on Her Arms,” a story about a girl who was a suicidal cocaine addict. My favorite part of that story is near the beginning. I often quote this and other lines when people ask me about my life.

She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "F*** UP" large across her left forearm.

Suicide attempts were no rare thing for me. People claimed the bandages were just a cry for attention, but the skin (or lack there of) beneath the bandages spoke of a desperate girl wanting a way out. I was alone, uninspired, unmotivated, and just pathetic. I felt my only worth came from how others viewed me. Whenever I felt like I didn’t belong, I inhaled a little deeper and let the night float away.

I spent most of my time with this baby boy I watched. Aidan. He called me mommy. The only way he would fall asleep was if I would sing him "Grand Theft Autumn." Nothing him calmed more than being in my arms. He was my son. I loved him. He loved me. It was simple. March 20, 2006 my sister picked me up from school. All she would tell me was that something happened to Aidan and mom would explain later. He fell in the pool and drowned. He was in the hospital in a coma. I spent every waking moment by his side. I couldn't sit through school. Then three days later, I was in the kitchen waiting for my mom to pick me up and take me to the hospital. She was late, it was odd. I remember that moment perfectly. I was in the corner of the sink and the counter. I heard her walk in. She was crying. She looked right at me, ignoring everyone else in the house. "He's dead." I fell to the ground and didn't get up until hours later when we went to the hospital. I held him one last time, sang to him one last time, and kissed him goodbye. The day of the Fall Out Boy concert was his funeral. I sang over his grave, begging him to wake up. Then I went to the house and got more drunk than I had ever been in my life and went to the concert.

The next morning I was hungover and bruised (mosh pits, fun stuff) and of course had to work. I refused to go. My mom said that if I stayed home I was grounded. Something about that fight set me off. It was the last straw. I tied a belt to my closet door, tied it around my neck, and sat down with a picture of Ian in my hands. Everything had just about gone black when I saw the outline of my sister's feet in my doorway. I spent the night in the hospital and swore I would be okay from then on. I pretended everything was perfect. I wore bright colors and make-up to hide the dark circles from nights spent crying.

Years passed, going from the arms of one boy to the next, trying to make myself feel loved, feel wanted, feel like I wasn't worthless. That's about where I met Jon. He was 5 years older than me. A real man. He knew how to treat a girl. It was a long distance thing, but he would come into town once in a while, sometimes just to see me. He would bring me roses and teddy bears and sweaters when I was cold. He convinced me to spend the night with him at the hotel taking the opportunity to ask me to marry him. We were together for months before my parents found out. Then one fateful day, I got my phone taken away while fighting with Jon. My parents went through my text messages and found one about me spending the night with him. They were yelling but the only words I could make out were "You're never to talk to him again."

They walked out the room and I packed a bag to run away with him. He wouldn't take me. He didn't want me. I was a worthless slut. So instead I took an entire bottle of Advil PM and let the hours float away. I was lying in a hospital bed, my second time there for a suicide attempt; downed an entire bottle of Advil PM. By the time we had made it to the E.R. there was nothing the doctors could do except monitor me. So there I lay, somewhere in between this world and the next, when I heard a voice telling me that this wasn’t the end and not to give up. I wasn't allowed out of the house, not even to school, for a week. I was stuck home, trapped with my thoughts. I knew I couldn't live how I was going much longer.

It may sound surprising, but I thought nothing of the voice in the hospital until two days later when I fell to my knees in the shower. I had given up. I knew the only way to survive was to turn my life over to God. I had no idea how to pray or if God was even listening. I was so sure that God had turned his back on me long ago, but somehow, after hours of crying out to Jesus, the tears stopped and breath was easier to find.

Later that day, my sister was sitting on my bed with me one day, just talking. We were close then. (I forgot to mention she went to rehab and moved out here.) I told her that I knew I couldn't keep this up much longer. I needed something. She did too. She had miscarried some months earlier. She mentioned that her best friend Kelly invited her to church the next Sunday, I was welcome to join them. Have you ever read the parable of the prodigal son? They were just starting a series on it that week. I cried. I had finally found the love that I needed. Not with a guy, not with a drug, with God. That was September.

I am no longer ashamed to admit that I had a past before finding Jesus. Through my walk with Jesus I have learned that even the most solid people aren’t perfect. This was a hard learned lesson for me. I’d like to say that I have not stumbled in my walk since, but there is no use in lying. While, I haven’t had any relapses as far as intoxicating substances, there have been plenty of times where my mind reverted back to old beliefs. I have fallen into the old behaviors that I worked so hard to push away. Now, I bring them forward. I lay them at the feet of Jesus no longer hiding that this is who I am. I am not perfect. I have had my fair share of tumbles, but with God I have had the strength to stand up and continue through the valley.

My favorite Bible verse quickly became Isaiah 43:1-2, “But now, this is what the Lord says—he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: ‘Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.’”

Now my only hope is that God will help to loosen my grip on the sins that I have pulled close to me. My prayer is to not have to question just how forgiven I am.