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I am a Christian woman trying to keep my eyes focused on Christ.
I am married (for the third time) and I have two children from my first marriage. My first husband and I are still friends and we work together to raise our children. I also have two adult step sons who do not live with us. Between my husband and me, we have five cats – yes five! That’s a lot of fur!
I don’t think I want to go too far into my past – it would take too long – but I will say that I started smoking pot when I was about 10. My oldest brother was heavily into it and introduced me to it to keep me quiet. I was desperate for my brothers’ approval so I did whatever they did hoping they would love me.
Just after my 11th birthday I lost my mother to cancer. I was absolutely devastated and had no one to go to for comfort. My father was dating within a week or two and my brothers seemed unaffected. In retrospect, I’m sure they were very hurt, but the way my family dealt with things was to just move on.
I spent time with a few different relatives. One family was very religious. I had already given my life to Christ so at first it all seemed to be OK. They were very, very poor, but the kids were close to my age and we all got along. During my stay they told me that the reason my mother died was that she didn’t believe that Christ could save her.
About six months after my mother’s death, my father remarried. Life as I had once known it was over. My father and my brothers had moved on. Meanwhile I was still reeling from all of the changes that had taken place. Not only was I grieving in silence and trying to adjust to life with a new step mother, but now I had to deal with the fact that the one person who made any sense in my life was gone – and it was her fault!
As an adult, I can say that my mother died from cancer and not from a lack of faith. However, as a grieving 11 year old, I took it to heart. It took a few years, but I eventually turned my back on the God that I once invited into my heart. My heart was broken and now it was empty. I hated God and myself.
Eventually, I added alcohol to the mix. I started with beer and wine since at that time 18 was the legal drinking age for beer and wine. Being rather well endowed, I could pass for 18 when I was only 14. So age was not a deterrent in getting alcohol.
In high school drugs and alcohol were cool – or so I thought. I continued down that road looking for acceptance. By that time, my father and step mother had split up for the second time. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything about that either. I guess that not being a blood relative was supposed to mean that I couldn’t love her. I did though and it hurt like hell when she left.
My life was spiraling out of control. I hated myself. I numbed by heart, mind and body with alcohol, sex and sometimes drugs. Pain was all I knew and so the cycle continued. My father was too busy trying to fulfill his own needs to see that I was drowning in a sea of despair. My brothers were totally oblivious.
Somewhere along the line, I managed to clean up my act enough to finish school, get a job, get married and have children. Those things weren’t enough to fill the God-sized hole in my heart though. As my marriage started to fall apart, my consumption of alcohol increased. I could never control the amount I drank. I even tried drinking things like gin and scotch thinking that because I didn’t like them, I would drink less. As luck would have it, I acquired a taste for both.
A few years ago, I found myself looking for a church. I could no longer ignore the knocking. To make a long story short, I found one and recommitted my life to Christ. I was the prodigal son! I was so fearful that I wouldn’t be accepted, but found the opposite to be true. Not only did the church welcome me, but my Father in Heaven came running with open arms.
Immediately, I found myself on a spiritual path that I am still trying very hard to stay on. I don’t dare say that this was of my own doing or even dumb luck – and I don’t believe in coincidences. No – I believe that God was with me the entire time whether I wanted Him there or not. He couldn’t take my hand and guide me until I reached out for Him. Once I did reach out, I felt an overwhelming sense of love. I felt like I was finally home.
In that past few years, I stumbled and fell quite a few times, but God blessed me. He hasn’t wasted a single hurt or tear. I married an abusive man. God finally helped me to find the courage to leave and get the help I had needed for many years. I got into counseling and addressed a lot of old issues that had long been swept under the rug – mostly by my parents. During that horrible stormy season of my life, I clung to the God that I had hated and mocked for so many years. My faith grew immeasurably. My children and I learned to love each other like never before. We learned to count on each other. I never would have asked for all that we went through, but now that we are on the other side, I can see the blessings of my Savior.
As I mentioned in a blog, I’m not sure exactly when I quit drinking or the reason I told myself. All I know is that I didn’t believe that I had a problem – especially if I could just quit. In retrospect, I can see that when I did drink it was like an obsession. I always needed more and more and more. I’m not sure just when the light bulb finally went on, but I’m glad it did. I don’t think it is enough to just not drink anymore – not for me anyway. I need to treat the entire disease – not just the worst symptom.
I’m glad I found this place. I hope to work through the steps and various issues here and elsewhere. I just hope that in the process we can all help each other.
Read on if you dare, but the following is not for the faint of heart...
My mother was dead and my father offered only empty promises. He did the best he could. He was just too busy with work and meeting his own needs. In my brothers’ eyes, I was the annoying little sister. They paid attention to me just enough to keep me from saying anything about the things they were doing. Other than that, they just ignored me and went on their way.
My father worked from midnight until 8:00 and my brothers often went out as soon as my father left. I kept my brothers’ secret about going out late at night. I didn’t like being left all alone, but I got used to it. I had my dog, my cats and the television. Still, I cried a lot at night when no one was around.
I needed my mother, but she was gone. Who would be my mother? There was no one so at night when I was sad, I curled into a little ball, wrapped my arms around my pillow and cried. I hated being so weak. I felt like such a cry baby. Eventually, I would grit my teeth and demand that I stop crying.
I hated myself for being so sensitive. I hated crying and feeling sorry for myself. I wasn’t good at showing myself compassion so I became angry and bitter. I put on a bully coat and became as mean and nasty as I could. Anything sweet about me was replaced with a vile demeanor. Nothing about me was pretty.
I wanted desperately to love and be loved. Eventually, there was nothing lovable about me. I was just a walking, talking ball of rage. Except for my pets, I loved nothing – including myself. I couldn’t love anything – I couldn’t take the pain and disappointment. It just hurt too much.
My father provided for my physical needs. I had plenty to eat and enough clothes to wear. I had a comfortable place to live. Unfortunately, I was alone so much of the time. Even when my father and brothers were there, I was still alone. I was incredibly lonely and felt so unloved and unlovable.
I came and went as I pleased. Each time I tested the boundaries, I couldn’t find any. I kept pushing, poking and prodding, but I found nothing. My language was like that of a drunken sailor. I wanted to be tough.
I took risks. I took rides with strangers. I did drugs and drank with anyone who would share. My behavior said, “Hey look at me!” Unfortunately, the only looks I got were from people who would take advantage of me. My father turned a blind eye and I continued to do as I pleased with whom I pleased.
I was screaming for attention and I finally got it. Unfortunately, the attention I got was from the wrong people. I was in intense pain and did everything I could think of to be noticed. I didn’t know how to just ask for help so instead of getting help, predators helped themselves to me. Somehow they knew that a little attention – even the wrong attention – would go a long way.
By the time I was fourteen, I had the body of a voluptuous woman – a very voluptuous woman – a body that intrigued men – a body that made men drool. Starved for attention, I took the flirting and the ogling. I even started craving it. I dressed to be noticed. I wore tight, low cut tops that exposed plenty of skin and cleavage. I knew when men were looking and I flaunted my body.
If a man dared to approach me, I filled with excitement. I felt alive. I felt something other than invisible. People could see me. Men could see me and they wanted to be near me. I could see and feel their yearning and I loved it. I needed it. My family didn’t seem to notice me, but men did. I had something that they wanted. I was in control – or so I thought.
Eventually, just being wanted wasn’t enough. I needed them to need me. I flirted and teased relentlessly. I lived life dangerously – walking ever closer to the edge. I tempted fate again and again. I laughed in the face of danger. I looked danger in the eye and dared it to come and get me. I taunted it until it took the bait.
I’m not sure exactly how old I was, but probably at about 15 or 16, I took a ride to drink beer with a man – probably in his thirties or forties. After refusing to go to a motel with him, he took me to a secluded area, overpowered me and despite my protests, had sex with me. Though I could still feel the pain, my body and mind went limp until he was finished. Having been sexually abused by my grandfather as a very small child, I suppose going limp came naturally. Adding insult to injury, he offered to pay me when he was done. I was so dumbfounded and ashamed by what had happened that I didn’t even realize that I had been raped. Even if I had realized what had happened, who could I tell? What would I say? What would they say?
For more than 25 years, I told no one what happened to me that day. As far as I was concerned, I put myself in the situation and deserved what happened. Even after I figured out that I had been raped, I still kept it to myself. I was still ashamed of myself for tempting fate the way I did. I got the beer that I wanted. In exchange for a few beers, not only was I raped physically, but any shred of dignity that I might have had left, was take from me.
After that incident, shame and guilt engulfed me like a raging fire. I hated myself and who I had become. I was dirty and deserved filth. I looked for it. I sought it out. I remember getting drunk one day after school and then calling a guy who I knew liked me. I met him in the basement of an apartment building and let him have his way with me. I didn’t really know what sex was and I didn’t even like it. Yet somehow I still needed to be desired – even if it was just filthy, dirty, loveless, sex.
My teenage years were filled with days much like that one. I sold my soul and slept with the devil himself. Sex hurt, but being alone hurt more. Drugs and alcohol helped to ease the pain and fill the void. I did whatever I had to do to keep from being alone. Most times I went with men and got high or drunk and then let them have sex with me. I groaned in pain, but pretended to enjoy it. I just didn’t want to be alone. Rejection was worse than the pain. When it was over I could lie in the arms of a man and feel wanted – even if it was only for a while. My body ached, but somehow it was worth it.
I have come a long way since those days. Yet I am still haunted by my past. I cannot change it. I don’t condone anything that I did and I take full responsibility, but I finally understand why I did the things I did. I understand that physical pain somehow felt better than the unrelenting loneliness I felt day in and day out.
I am married now and my husband knows all about my past. He understands being lonely in a house full of people. He knows the pain of rejection. He knows all the dirty, filthy, loveless roads I have taken and yet he loves me anyway. I sometimes have difficulty accepting his love for me. All my life, God has been trying to tell me that I am worth loving. Yet somehow, I just haven’t been able to accept it. I believe that my husband is a gift from God and that God gave me my husband for a reason. He may not be doing it consciously, but my husband is teaching me that I am worth loving and that he will love me no matter where I have been and no matter what I have done. And if my husband – a flawed human being can love me like that – then how much more does my Father in Heaven love me?
