Not every spiritual experience I had was a positive one. I felt a creepy presence wherever I went. Something, someone was always watching me, following me. At night I would run upstairs to bed, pull the sheets up over my head, curl up in a little ball, and lie there, trembling and sweating.
Because I was so shy, I became the target for every bully all the way up through Junior High. I figure those kids were most likely just acting out on me things that were happening to them. Pain turns into anger, and misery loves to make its mark. There was no escape, so I fantasized my own little world where I could become anything I pleased. I made up big brothers who would stick up for me, and told the kids at school all about them. They knew I was lying, so it only caused me more ridicule.
I started shoplifting, was caught and put on probation for about a year. I couldn’t concentrate in school and thought I was STUPID. I skipped classes a lot and eventually dropped out. I started using drugs, cut myself sometimes, ran away from home twice, and was promiscuous. Like most victims of sexual abuse, I felt dirty, used and good for nothing.
I worshiped Satan for a time, and practiced witchcraft. I thought I could harness the dark power and use it for myself, but it was an illusion. I just wanted the people hurting me to leave me alone. Little did I know that the devil was applauding their efforts to destroy me, and even spurring them on.
I met this hippie-dippie guy at a rock concert. He was a Jesus freak and really turned me on to God, even gave me a bible. But when he moved away, I kind of lost my enthusiasm for God and didn’t quite know what to do with Him anyhow. By the time I was 17 I had thought about suicide too many times to count, and was hospitalized for depression at one point for two months.
For some reason, I got the bright idea that all I needed was a baby, (yeah, I know NOW, but back then…) someone I could love and receive love from in return. So, I got busy trying to make one. It never occurred to me how selfish it was, that you couldn’t feed babies hippie ideals.
The only problem I could see with having a baby was that my doctor had told me I might never be able to conceive because of all the sexual abuse. (When they found cancer cells growing on my cervix later down the road, they also attributed that to the sexual abuse). I wrote a poem to God and asked him to please make my life worth living by giving me a child of my own. I know God made sex to be enjoyed, (and please, take a moment to pause by the words, “GOD MADE SEX,” because I know you think God is no fun, and well, DUH), anyhow, he made it to be enjoyed within the context of marriage, but I asked him anyhow, out of desperation. I did conceive, after about my third try. I had a little boy and named him, “Nathaniel,” which means, “gift of God.”
My parents coerced me into marrying the father of the child, who was a 16-year-old alcoholic. We did get married on his 17th birthday, and the marriage lasted 10 months. To this day, I have his last name!
Ok! More to come.