"It's not what we need to learn, but unlearn." Bill Crosby

When I was a kid, I learned to read people. I became really good at detecting other people's feelings and needs, especially those people who were hurting me. I thought if I could figure out what was going on inside them, I could somehow keep myself from getting hurt. I got so good at knowing when they were happy, what they wanted and even when they were about to blow. There was a problem though. I didn't always get it right. Sometimes I did, but sometimes it just made me crazy. I was constantly on edge, constantly afraid, constantly trying to decipher what was going on inside the other person.

I became whatever people needed. But in doing that, somewhere along the way, I lost myself. I never knew what I wanted, or liked, or needed. I had this weird detachment from myself, almost as if I was separate from me. The sensation of not being present in my skin was like hanging onto a thin thread that I felt could break at any moment.

When someone asked me something as simple as what color I liked, or what food I wanted to eat, I went into a panic. Every decision became life and death. I agnonized over the craziest things. Once I stood in the store for hours trying to decide if I liked one color over the other. A friend was with me and he tried to help me figure out which I liked. Finally, frustrated, I asked him to make the choice. I did that all the time and then beat myself up for being so stupid.

I had been taught to not trust myself. As a kid, I was never allowed to make any choices. - not about what I ate, what I wore, what I wanted or what I did. When my father was hungry or tired and I wasn't, he cursed me, calling me vile names, - telling me I was so stupid and didn't know what I needed. He knew better. If he asked me to pick out something in the store and I did, he put it back screaming it was dumb and he wouldn't spend his hard earned money on something so useless. Whatever I wore, he told me to change to what he wanted me to put on. Everything I learned told me -not to trust me.

Over and over and over he and my mother called me names - stupid, idiot, garbage, worthless, deserving nothing. I believed them.

When I began to heal from all the abuse, I realized I had learned so many things I needed to unlearn. Learning to trust myself was huge. I felt like I was in a war. Many times I fought with myself - throwing up, cutting and biting my arms - desperately wanting to make my own choices, but falling back into extreme panic - accepting the lies I had been taught - believing I was stupid and had no idea what I needed or wanted.

I needed to come home to my body. I needed to learn to live in my skin. It was terrifying. Somehow though, God helped me. He was my achor in healing. He gave me what I needed to fight. His presence, His gentleness gave me what I needed to come home to myself.

Hunger for Love and Acceptance

"Hunger is not only for a piece of bread, but for love. Homelessness is not only not having a home, but for being rejected and unwanted." Mother Theresa

For years I walked around with a profound sense of homesickness, an inner ache, a desperate yearning to go home. I felt it deep inside my gut and for years, I couldn't shake that twisting knotting in the pit of my stomach. Nothing took it away, - not relationships, not material things, not drugs, - nothing. I think now it was a hunger, a ravenous hunger for love and acceptance.

Everything I had been taught, told me I was nothing, worthless, bad. Images constantly rolled over in my head of my father spitting at me when he was in his rages, calling me names - garbage, retarded, worthless, - picking up furniture and throwing it at me, punching and slapping me and telling me it hurt him more than it hurt me; .....my mother beating me with a stick, teasing me, telling me I was stupid, an idiot, I couldn't talk right, walk right, breath right....I often wondered what was wrong with me that they hated me so much.

I wandered the streets, shooting dope, sometimes three and four times a day. I didn't care. My friend who I shot up kept telling me I wasn't shooting to get high, I was shooting to kill myself. He was right. I believed I had no right to exist.

One day I was in a fire. It was my fault. I accidently dropped the lit match I used to heat up the dope. My dog saved me. She grabbed me with her teeth and pulled me onto the balcony. A cop who had been looking out for me, heard what happened and came to see me at the hospital. He bought me clothes and when I was discharged, rented a place for us to move into together. He tried to help me. He told me over and over he loved me but I couldn't feel it. I didn't understand what he was saying. The amount of self-loathing I had was stronger than his love.

While I was with him, I was pulled into the rapist's house. He held me there for six months. He told me he loved me but he wouldn't let me go. And he hurt me. He hurt me really badly. Somehow I survived. I don't know how but I did. I never told anyone what happened or where I had been. I thought I deserved it. I thought it was my fault.

Then God touched me; cut through the pain, broke the chains holding me so tight. He took away the drug addiction but not the deep ache inside. That didn't go away. I couldn't let people get close. They would see what I knew, - they would see how worthless I was.

God never gave up on me. His love was so gentle. Some days I didn't care if He killed me. On those days when I felt wild, out of control, - when I ripped razor blades down my arms, or punched my head to make the memories stop, or held my head over the toilet throwing up over and over and over because I didn't believe I had the right to eat or live, - He was there, beside me, waiting. He never let me go. He waited. He stayed. Some days, I begged Him to kill me, to let me go but He didn't. He waited patiently. He waited until I was ready.

I live with gratitude, - gratitude that God didn't listen to me, that He let me live, that somehow He freed me.

I owe my life to Him. He broke through the emptiness and the pain and helped me to feel His love. I feel it. I feel it all the time. That feeling of homesickness is gone. That sense I'm worthless, garbage, - gone.

I want to help other people find freedom. I want them to know what I found out, that there is hope and there is freedom and God's love can break through anything and redeem it. Most of my friends have no idea what I lived. I don't want them to know but something inside me is compelling me to tell, - I think it's my love for God, my gratitude to Him. I need to tell.

"The soul is healing by being with children." Fyodor Dostoyevsky

My kids are the absolute best. In some weird way, they have helped me heal from the pain of the past.

When I had my oldest, I was terrified I would hurt her and do to her what was done to me. While she slept, I locked myself in the bathroom, turned off the light and in the dark, knelt down on the floor. I begged God to help me not to hurt her. I was terrified. I heard those who were abused, abuse their children. I spent hours in that bathroom, on the floor, begging God to help me never to harm my child. I pleaded with Him to teach me how to be a good mother. I didn't know how. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. All I knew was this innocent little creature depended on me to give her what she needed. I felt so overwhelmed, so afraid.

On days I felt exhausted and impatient, when the building tension inside me needed a release, I cut myself, or threw up, - the only ways I knew to be strong and not fall apart.

I became aware of the power I had over this child. She was so small, so vulnerable, so trusting - I watched her grow, each year of her life more awesome than the previous. It amazed me to see how freely she moved in her body, how easily she laughed and chatted, how safe she felt in her world. I prayed over and over, "God, don't let me ever take that away from her."

Watching her, I saw me as a child; - terrified - hiding, afraid, hating everything about who and what I was. Hating my body, - believing it was my enemy; Unable to speak, - my words caught in my throat; anxious, on guard, - always petrified of getting hurt.

With each stage of her life, I saw myself,- at eight hiding under the balcony, in dark corners biting my arms, slicing deep gashes on my skin, shooting dope into my arms, refusing to eat, living on edge, trying desperately to avoid getting caught, getting hurt.

Then something strange and wonderful happened. I learned to play. I don't know exactly when or how, I just did. All this energy inside me wanted to come out in positive ways. I took my kids into the woods and together we felt the power of nature. The deer came out and the blueherons and my kids went nuts. I went nuts with them. We climbed to the top of the mountains and then we chased each other all the way down to the bottom. I took them to hideouts, and neat secret places that became our places to dream, to talk, to laugh, to bond.

I have never called my kids names, or hurt them. When I'm having a bad day and become irritable and impatient, I apologize to them, letting them know it's me and not them. Since they were little, I have told them I am the luckiest mom in the world to have been blessed with the greatest kids ever.


Teachers, friends and neighbours tell me all the time how amazing they are, how good, and kind and wonderful. God had heard me. He helped me learn how to be a good mom. Yesterday my teenage daughter told me I rock, that I'm her best friend, that she loves me to the moon and back a gazillion times.

My kids have no idea what I lived. I used to think if they did know, they would hate me. I don't think that anymore. I think maybe they would be proud of their mom for having survived and overcome what I have. One day, I'll tell them. For today, I just want to build courage and strength in them and to make sure they know they are completely accepted and respected for who they are.

"Love is not a feeling. It's a behaviour." Oprah Winfrey

'I love you,' my father said. Then he beat me and called me filthy names. 'I love you,' my father said. Then he locked me alone in the car for hours in the worst part of town. 'I love you,' my father said. Then he shoved his fist in my face and forced me to eat even when I kept throwing up. 'I love you,' my father said. Then he held me down on the bed.......

'I love you,' the rapist said. Then he punched me so hard, my spleen ruptured. 'I love you,' the rapist said. Then he held me down and did what he wanted. 'I love you,' the rapist said. Then he locked me in a cold dark room and wouldn't let me go.

'I love you,' God said. Then He patiently waited until I was ready to trust Him. 'I love you,' God said. Then He broke the hold of the drug addiction. 'I love you,' God said. Then He calmed my anger and hatred. 'I love you,' God said. Then He healed my heart with His gentle touch. 'I love you,' God said. Then He freed me from the shame and fear.

Just because someone claims they love you, doesn't mean they really do. I think the wires in my head got all mixed up when I was a kid. I thought what happened was normal, that everyone lived on edge, fighting to avoid getting beaten, living like someone in a war zone, in chaos, tension and confusion. I believed whatever happened was because something was wrong with me. I didn't know what was being done was wrong. I didn't know they had no right to do what they did. All I knew was it made me crazy. It made me want to punish myself in ways that nearly killed me. It pushed me over the edge, making me act impulsively, full of anger and not caring what happened.

But then I learned love doesn't hurt. I learned it's patient, kind and forgiving. I learned it's not jealous or full of pride or resentful or rude or demanding of its own way.

I never knew. No one had told me or showed me the truth about love. I figured it out as I went, but I had figured it out all wrong. Then God touched me and He showed me. He brought safe people into my life, but I resisted them, pushing them away, still needing to hide, afraid of getting hurt, not trusting. It took so long. But then I got it.

When love is real, not only does it not hurt, but it's like a balm that feels soothing on the inside and brings amazing healing and relief. I learned love doesn't keep a list of wrongs, so I chose to forgive and move forward. I want to shine so others can feel the touch of love from me. I want my life to reflect the truth of what love really is and find healing and freedom in their lives.

Comfortable With Yourself

"The worse loneliness is not to be comfortable with yourself." Mark Twain

For too long I walked around feeling as if I weren't attached to myself, almost as if I was outside my body walking beside it rather then actually being in it. Being separate and not a part of who I was, was a totally weird sensation. It's almost like floating through the world; - not being grounded.

My body wasn't safe. I felt like it betrayed me. It allowed all the abuse, - the beatings, the kidnap and the rape to happen. In my mind, just being seen and having a female body caused the violence. It was my enemy. I fought with myself, trying to force the fear and terror to go away - I fought against myself to be strong, but I was afraid, so afraid I couldn't stand it. The fear forced me to pull more and more into myself and away from reality.

As a kid, I willed myself to disappear until I couldn't feel anything. I lived in my head, in fantasies that took me to another place, a safe place. A place where no one could hurt me. But even that stopped working at some point. I needed to find something stronger, more effective that lifted me out of the pain and shame and fear. So I cut myself, ripped open my skin, injected my body full of dope and forced myself to throw up even if I ate one small bite of something. I told myself, I wasn't allowed to exist. I had been told over and over I deserved nothing, I was garbage, worthless, ungrateful. I believed it. Words are so powerful. I lived on those words, falling deeper and deeper into a dark hole that became harder and harder to get out of.

And then, He touched me. He pulled me up and out of that pit of hell. In a hospital emergency room, where I lay under oxygen - the damage I had done to my body extensive - He touched me. He redeemed me. He breathed life into me. I felt it. I knew something supernatural had happened. It was powerful. So powerful I stopped using the drugs. Right from that moment. Fourteen years of shooting up, three and four times a day,- Gone - Over - because of His touch.

I don't know why He chose to free me. Why me? I'm no more special than anyone else. I thought of friends who died, friends who took their own lives or accidentally overdosed, - why me? Why did He let me live? I don't understand but I am determined now to to look back, as painful as it is, for one purpose, - to reach out and help someone else caught in their own cycle of torment. There is hope. There is freedom - For me, I found it in Him. When nothing else worked, He did. He touched me. He changed me. He turned the light of His love on. The darkness left. The fear went. Now I live with tremendous joy and gratitude.

Overcoming Hatred

"Hatred can be overcome only by love." Mahatma Ghandi

For years I walked around with so much hate and anger in me. I hated what my parents did to me. I hated the way they shamed me, beat me, made me feel less than human. And I hated the system that claimed they could help me. They were like my parents,- shaming, punishing, bullying.

I was arrested for drug possession. My social worker convinced the judge to let me do the time on a locked pysch ward instead of prison. Being on that ward,- that place of misery pushed me further into myself and broke me even more. Their methods of forcing me to conform were brutal. The chemical and physical restrains took away any shred of dignity I may have had. My brain became dull from the medications, the fight in me subdued, but the hatred grew. Hatred for them, for me, and for everyone who had hurt me.

One time they strapped me to a bed by my arms and legs for some minor infraction. They kept me there for two days like a chained animal, allowing me up only to go to the washroom. At mealtimes, they wouldn't untie my arms. A staff came in to feed me. Humiliated; I refused to eat. I hated them. I despised them. My anger grew. I wanted to hurt them, punish them in some way like they were doing to me.

Instead, I cut into my flesh, trying to rip myself apart, desperate to pull out the bad, the part of me everyone kept telling me was horrible and wrong. Scars formed on my body, but I didn't care, because they were already in my heart and soul and mind.

Hatred and anger became a way of life. It drove me. It fueled the fight in me. I turned on myself with a vengeance. My arms were full of bruises and marks from biting myself and cutting my skin open. The blood oozing out was my salvation, the thing that released the building tension inside me. My blood, a proof of life, that I was still alive.

Blood? That's what finally turned my life around. The blood. His blood. The blood He shed for me so I wouldn't have to hurt myself anymore. Like me, He too was beaten, shamed, ridiculed. He never opened his mouth. He never fought back. That amazed me. How could He not? They laughed at Him, mocked Him, and He said nothing, nothing except, "Father, forgive them...."

Hearing that, my anger began to subside. Thoughts of revenge slowly became thoughts of forgiveness. It's hard to forgive, to let go of the brutality of what some people did - but to not forgive is worse.

I want my life to reflect His love. He loved me when I couldn't love myself. He loved me when I was wild, out of control and bent on self-destruction. I don't fully get how He did that, but I am so grateful for the gentleness of His love that broke the chains that kept me stuck.