Writing to Connect

‎"Write only if you cannot live without writing. Write only what you alone can write."  Elie Wiesel

 

Yesterday at work...I sat in a meeting...feeling uncomfortable....knowing I had to talk....in front of all those people.  I felt that old familar sick feeling in the pit of my stomach....and a far away feeling....fighting hard to stay present. All I wanted was to run....leave.....hide....   

I think it's because I'm writing another story......based on things that really happened. Things that made me afraid. Things that hurt. Things I've wanted to forget. But can't. And I've been talking to others.....who tell me simialiar stories.....women who have never forgotten the brutality of the mental health system that was supposed to help them....a system that stripped them of their dignity and made them live in fear.

A part of me needs to write....to tell.....to have my voice and to give a voice to others who want their stories told but don't know how to do it.  

 

I want to be heard. I want to be known.... the real me...not just what people see....the strong, friendly, outgoing social me....but that part that so often needs to hide....and that's afraid....

 

When I'm alone....lost in my writing....I feel free....and connected. I can let my heart speak of things I've never been able to say.....things that still play in my head.....that remind me of when I lived with no hope. I know those things made me strong....made me a fighter.....gave me a determination to push back and never give up.

Writing gives me a release....a sense of purpose. Connecting with others who share similiar stories...I want to write the truth.....for them....for me.....I want to be a voice....

Direction

"You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You're on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who'll decide where to go..."  Dr. Seuss

 

Decisions! I'm not the best at making them. Sometimes I think I like something...but I'm never really sure. I drive myself and my family crazy talking myself in and out of something. It's agonizing for them...and for me...but so many decisions...even simple ones... feel like a matter of life and death.  I'm never really sure if I need it...want it...or even like it. 

But there is something I know for sure....something I figured out these last few months...since I finally told what happened....and published my story...and won an award....and recieved so much support -  

I want to use what happened to make a difference for someone else.....to give hope and show that nothing is impossible to overcome: not drugs, or the streets, or an eating disorder...or anything. Sometimes it seems like things will never change and sometimes things may not always work out in the ways I want...but the Light does come on...and things do change....and freedom is possible.

People tell me I'm a good writer. I didn't know that. All I know is I couldn't talk...and writing has helped me have my voice. Through writing...maybe I can say other things...things which I've never been able to openly talk about. It goes beyond my personal story to systems and how they run.....  

Inside me.....there's a quiet whisper that pulls and tugs....pushing me to not be afraid to say those things I've never been able to voice....and maybe...just maybe I can make a difference for someone else.

 

Survivor Guilt

"I've met holocaust survivor victims, through other films, and I know what survivor guilt is like." Ben Kingsley

We were at the Dairy Queen. Standing in line....waiting our turn to be served.  I glanced at the family next to us. They were laughing.... having fun... trying to figure out what to order.  I watched....fascinated. They were totally into being at the Dairy Queen.....excited about the food they were going to eat....and the time they were spending together....totally enjoying themselves.   And then it hit me - I've been living with survivor guilt...

I've been afraid to touch life.....to let go....and relax....just enjoy life. I've never let myself experience being free...except when I'm in the woods...or goofing around with my kids.....but not in 'real' life.  I've been driven...to be whatever anyone needed...twisting myself to fit what they wanted - 

But standing there in that dairy queen....watching that family...it dawned on me....I always felt I had no right to survive...no right to be alive....no right to life. I was really grateful I had.....but when I thought of friends who had killed themselves or accidently overdosed......friends who couldn't make it out of the darkness....something in me....deep down inside.... always wondered why me and not them. Why did I survive and they didn't?

Survivor Guilt - it's kept me from living free....from touching life the way others do. Seeing that familiy....watching them...made me realize I don't want to be free without living free. It's time to stop asking why. I couldn't help my friends. I couldn't save them. I couldn't even help myself. It was His touch that made the  difference. Without Him....I wouldn't be free. Maybe now with Him....I can learn to live that freedom.

Rest...Relax

Breathe Deeply! The Snuggle Fabric Softner Bear

Relaxing is work for me....really hard work. I struggle to stay still...to let go...to veg.  I'm so used to fighting....and holding on....not letting go....fighting to overcome something or other. People tell me....go on a holiday, go relax...but I can't.....I don't think I know how.

I feel better moving....and having a goal to aim for. All my life I've had to fight....to survive...to get free....to push back against someone or something....Now - I'm not sure how to just be. 

It hits me more when we go away....on holidays. As soon as I open my eyes....I want to move....run...go. My kids tell me they love the adventures they have with me. We do a ton of stuff in just one day.....but when we stop....and it's time to veg...to rest....I'm stuck...lost. I feel it in my body...the tension, the restlessness of not being able to stop or slow down - So another goal...something to work on - learning to breathe....to let go and just be!!!

Bugs

"God in His wisdom made the fly and then forgot to tell us why."  

Ogden Nash "The Fly

 Hearing screams, I flew downstairs. My girls stood holding each other....shaking and pointing towards the front door. "a bug...a creepy fat bug with a gizzilion legs..." 
I cracked up laughing. "It's just the Easter bunny in disguise." I told them. They didn't believe me. 
"Get it Ma...kill it." 
"Uh uh. not me....I ain't touching it."
 
Bugs! Like my girls....I'm afraid of them too. I once lived in a rough part of the city.....in an apartment infested with roaches. Nighttimes were the worst. They came out in droves.....and they were big and fat...the sound of the clicking of their legs scurrying across counters, tabletops and floor made me cringe. I was really afraid....and slept with the lights on. I thought maybe the light would deter them....but it didn't. They ruled the place and since I had no money....and nowhere to go - I was stuck there.

What's even worse....are the two legged ones..the perverts....those who rape children....assualt women.....hurt the vulnerable.  They too like the dark....and live in secret...in lies and deception. So many portray themselves as good...nice...helpful...like - coaches, fathers, teachers, pastors....and even some women....Maybe I'm colored by the stuff that happened to me.. 

I teach my girls...to listen to their gut....that if someone looks really good....sounds really good...and tons of people are supportive of them....but something in their gut doesn't feel good....to run.

The Difference

"There are two ways of exerting one's strength; one is pushing down, the other is pulling up." Booker T. Washington

I had a friend who was labeled violent. He was. He constantly beat people up....smashed things....terrorized everyone. His father had beat and sexually abused him. His uncles did too. When he turned 14 he wanted the power they had....he didn't want to be the victim anyomore. He wanted to be in control....like them. 

He showed up at school one day and attacked a kid.... turned over desks and was labeled violent. Everyone was afraid of him....the kids...the teachers....even the authorities. For the next few years he was in and out of treatment centres.....in and out of psych hospitals....heavily medicated. He couldn't hold down a job or  live on his own. His rage....his temper became his calling card. 

We talked a lot him and I. He told me stuff....stuff from his heart. I found out he could draw like no one else I knew. I wrote a story about a dandelion.....I read it to him. He drew pages and pages of beautiful dandelions....in brilliant color. I saw gentleness in his art...and in him. I saw the human being....the real person. 

I told him me and God believed in him. One day he admitted he didn't want to hurt anyone....he never did. He had just wanted the abuse to stop. He didn't know how to make it stop.....and now he didn't know how to stop being violent.

I never told him what happened to me...I never told him I had been beaten, held and raped. I never told him how much I hated the people who hurt me...and how I lived and breathed that hatred. I didn't even tell him how I unleashed all that hatred on myself......I was just there for him....listening....letting him talk...letting him vent his frustrations...and share his heart.  I started to see more of the the good in him. Others saw it too.  He started trying hard to control his temper and when he couldn't...when he lost it...he started saying he was sorry. 

One day his father came to see him. I was there. It shocked me to see how ordinary he looked...like anyone's father.....not deranged...or perverted or weird....just an ordinary man. But I knew what he had done to my friend. I knew his twisted mind. 

I remember thinking that day....I don't ever want to be like that man...or like my parents....or like the rapist who held me. I never want to hurt anybody. I want to be kind. I want to care. I want to be gentle like how God has been with me. I want to help pull others up...not tear them down. I  just want to make a postive difference....like He did for me. 

It Hurt So Bad.

To read the introduction and reviews go to www.gentlerecovery.webs.com

"Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter. Woe to those who are wise in their own eyes, and clever in their own sight." Isaiah 5:20,21

It hurt so bad. It hurt my mind. It hurt my body. It changed the way I moved in the world. I stopped being free. I needed to cover all of myself - my body, my soul - even my mind. I couldn't be seen. 

I was too scared to let anyone look in my eyes. If they did, they would see the shame, the badness, the horribleness of who I was. 

My body is bad. I can't be seen. To be seen means to be hurt: raped, punched, beaten. Being seen hurts too much. It means being forced to do what what I don't want. Hold your breath. Don't move. Then no one can see. 

It hurt so bad. In hurt my mind. It hurt my soul. I wasn't good enough. I moved in shame. I moved in apprehension knowing the slightest look, the tiniest hint of vulnerablity would result in an unwanted attack. 'Don't touch me. Don't look at me.' I feel dirty. I feel less than human. 

Beaten and shamed, I deserved what I got. That's what he said, his fist shoved in my face. I held back tears that wanted to pour out of me, but I knew if they did, they would never stop; my soul would be flooded and I would drown in their torrent. I need to fight to survive. I need to fight me, to hurt myself to stay alive. 

I have become my abuser. I need to punish myself because they are right. I am bad. So I cut into my soul and I cut into my body, trying to rip the good out, tear the bad apart, desperate to be accepted. 

I watch the red life force stain the sheets, the bed, the floor. My blood. It tells me I am still alive. I can go on fighting. The demons rage in my head, fighting for my soul while I stand on the sidelines waiting to see who the victor will be.
 

Dignity

"One's dignity may be assaulted, vandalized and cruelly mocked, but cannot be taken away unless it is surrendered." Micheal J. Fox

She was the first-born of triplet girls and weighed only 2 pounds. Her parents wanted to prepare her for marriage...not a career. They refused to support her decision to attend university...She chose to go anyways....without their support. 


She became one of the most loved and respected psychiatrist of our time. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross...well known for her work on death and dying...practised psychiatry at a U.S. facility early in her career. It was there she tested her theory.....if you show compassion, kindness and respect to even the most disturbed patients.....they will respond positively.  It worked. No drugs, no force, no punishment...  
"Patients with even the most severe illnesses seemed to respond to Kübler-Ross's compassionate approach. The indifferent and even inhumane treatment of patients in psychiatric hospitals appalled the young doctor, and the more freedom she was allowed in treating patients, the more successful results she achieved......

When I think about the 'professionals' who used force.....tying me to a bed, locking me in a closet sized room, pumping me full of sedatives that gave me horrible side effects...I still get angry...I want to strike back at them....hurt them the way they hurt me. Why did they think it was acceptable to treat anyone like that?  And that type of 'treatment' goes on all the time in government run homes and institutions. 

The dictionary defines dignity as - a term used to signify that a human being has an inate right to respect and ethical treatment. 

Some of those professionals claiming to 'help' me - stripped me of any shred of dignity I may have had. They said they were simply trying to stop me from hurting myself.  Their force, their control...their methods only pushed me to lash out more....and intensified my self-hatred.  What they did...was reinforce what I had already learned growing up in a violent home....


Dignity....He touched me....and showed me a different way. He showed me compassion, kindness....gentleness. He changed me like Kubler-Ross's kindness changed her patients. Dignity - I never want to take that from anybody....

Loyalty

"The trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool." Stephen King

His hook were his words....gentle, soothing...claiming love. I overlooked his rage, the beatings, the name calling.  He told me he loved me.....he told me I was the only one who understood him.....he said he  needed me. I was seven years old.

He poured out his heart...sharing things I didn't understand. And when he hurt me....using vulgar words or his fists....or locking me in the car for hours...I still believed he loved me....I didn't know any different and besides - he needed me. 

At eight....he beat me so bad I started cutting myself. I thought he was right - I believed I was worthless.  Nine...ten....eleven...at twelve I stole morphine trying to block out his rage and my fear....thirteen....fourteen I was shooting dope three and four times a day.

Loyalty.....I was loyal to him no matter what he did or how he treated me.  I tried to be what he wanted, to give him what I thought he needed. He spoke with kindness...tenderness but then in the same heartbeat he turned like someone possessed and I became the object of his hatred.

Loyalty - I knew more about what he liked, what he wanted, what he needed than what I did. I didn't exist near him. I couldn't. He couldn't handle that....so I disappeared. I went away. I got lost. I lived in my own world...

Loyalty....the rapist demanded loyalty just like my father. He said he loved me....that I couldn't live without him....and that God wanted me to be with him. Like my father, he hurt me and wouldn't let me go. I managed to get free...but I wasn't really free. Not for a long time....Not until I had falled so far down....not until I almost died - not until I felt His touch....and He showed me the power and truth of loyalty....

I learned I had trusted in lies, in deception. To trust from my heart instead of my head was too hard.  I screamed at Him to kill me...to let me go...but He wouldn't. 

I needed to learn to be loyal to myself.  I struggled with knowing simple things....like my favorite color or food or tv program. I had a hard time staying present or letting anyone get close and I couldn't stop hurting myself. He waited....with patience...with gentleness.

Loyalty - It's powerful. It determines the direction of life. 



 

Book Give Away

"Not to transmit an experience is to betray it." Eli Wiesel

It took me one year to write what I lived. One year to put it down on paper. One year to remember how far down He had reached to pull me out. One year of fighting within myself to finally come to the place of letting Him use what I lived - to give hope - to someone else.   

It is a story I had never told; I kept it all inside. I started to wonder if it was some crazy dream, or if it had even happened at all. Sometimes I thought maybe I had made it up. Other times I thought it wasn’t that bad – it was no big deal. But last year people I hadn’t seen in a while started surfacing: family, friends... people who knew. “You’re a miracle,” they said. “How did you survive?” 
 “Survive?” “Miracle?”  What did they mean? They started to tell me stories from their memories of how bad things were: how thin I had become, how out of control... My older sister whom I hadn’t seen for a long time returned from living overseas. She needed to talk. She forced me to listen... forced me to remember. 

When the memories hit, they hit hard. I wrote to get the images out of my head. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I wanted to get in my car, close my eyes and drive. It felt like it was happening all over again – the beatings, the confinement, the rape; throwing up time after time after time, even when I had tasted only a small bite of something; shoving needles in my arm  three and four times a day; ripping my arms with jagged rocks to feel something because I was so numb inside.

Why God? Why are you letting me go through this again? 

I didn’t want to remember! Yet in remembering, it dawned on me – finally – just how far down God had reached to free me.

Every day, in heat, rain or cold, I ran - alone in the woods - in the hills near our home. There I felt the gentle touch of God. I heard Him whisper, “You’re stronger now. It’s time to tell the truth of what happened. Tell your story to give hope to others.”

How could I never have told anyone what He had done for me? Nothing else had worked. Nothing had been able to break the chains that kept me living on the edge. Nothing…except the gentleness of His touch. 

The power of His gentleness...
In the Eye of Deception: This is my story. www.gentlerecovery.webs.com

The publisher made an error and printed a couple of books with stretched margins. I thought I would turn this 'error' into a free give away. For everyone who leaves a comment with their email here or on my website -  your name will be written down and my daughter will pull out the name of the winner. The 'winner' will be chosen on Friday of this week. 

Letting Love In

"To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides." David Viscott

 

For a long time I was afraid to love....anyone or anything. I didn't want to get hurt. I was afraid it or them would be taken away. Anytime someone showed they cared - or wanted to get close - I pushed them away - making excuses - leaving. And I never let myself get attached to things. I didn't think they would last either.

But not loving anything or anyone left me feeling alone and empty. That deep hunger for love and being too afraid was a vicious cycle that churned and gnawed inside me - It made me feel like an outsider - not really living. Fear won out for a long time.  


People called me a risk taker. I never knew....to love is to take a risk. Writing, blogging....opened my heart. I don't know how that happened. I wrote the truth - I wrote what I could never say. I wrote and kept writing...Something happened. A light turned on. The heaviness began to lift. The shame didn't feel so intense. I let people look in my eyes - and I could stay in their presence a bit longer. 

Somebody knew. You guys knew. No one had ever said what I lived was awful. I had tried to fight it - to not let it be so big. No one had told me it was bad - no one had said they were sorry it happened. People are saying it now - And that was the key that turned the lock on my heart. I feel a softness inside - a vulnerabilty that wasn't there before - I'm letting people in my world - I'm letting people care - and I'm letting them stay.


I always cared about people - I didn't want anyone to be hurt or afraid - but to care....really care...I'm learning you have to let them love you back....and not be afraid to take a risk.

Love - it started with Him - somehow He cut through all the layers that padded and hid my heart - all the layers that kept the light out  -  I want to love and let others love me back. I want to live free and be a part of life - not an outsider afraid to join in - and I want to give back in ways that make a difference  -

Never Hopeless

"When you say a situation or person is hopeless, you are slamming the door in the face of God." Charles Allan
 

There were professionals who thought I was pretty hopeless. They believed with medication and psychiatric intervention I could live an ok life. They pumped me full of pills even though I was a drug addict and tried to take control over my life. Their pills made me weird....made me want to sleep all the time, and gave me strange side effects. 

Those 'professionals' had the answers. They knew what I needed. I didn't know anything. And they labeled me with borderline personality and other nonesense terms. When I tried to refuse their help and their pills - they forced me - locking me in isolation, tying me to the bed.... hurting me with physical and chemical restraints. They stripped me of every shred of dignity and took away any sense of control I had. Their seeing me as hopeless made me hate them and me even more... and I began to see myself as hopeless.


Then He touched me....and He did what the professionals couldn't. His love - His gentleness broke through and did what no amount of force could. Force never works and nobody is ever hopeless. 

Sometimes when I think of what 'professionals' did to me, how they treated me....their labels, their methods of 'treatment'... I get angry and want to lash out at the system. But I don't want to fight or be angry anymore. I want to forgive....like He forgave me - and I want to treat others different than I was treated.

I want to take what I've been given and extend a hand of hope. Working in a hospital I hear many stories of 'professionals' living on edge, ...in broken marriages, broken homes..living empty lives. A few days ago a 'professional' commited suicide. It's scarey to think these are the people who take control over the lives of others...vulnerable people....people who are broken, lost...

I never want anyone to feel what I did. I want to show kindness and compassion and help whoever I work with to feel empowered. I want to give what He gave to me. Force, humiliation and threats never work. Kindness does. Kindness always does.  And no one is ever hopeless.

Made a Difference

"Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see." Mark Twain

I woke up this morning really tired feeling irritable and negative. Then I read - www.offthebeatentrek.blogspot.com. RCUBE is an amazing lady who works as a nurse in a prison. Check out her blog. She is such an encourgement.

RCUBE's post today reminded me of when I was incarcerated and then placed on a locked psych ward. Staff have their own issues and sometimes they take it out on patients or prisoners. I hated being under their control and I hated feeling powerless. I wasn't a criminal. I was a drug addict. I never hurt anyone - only myself, but they made me feel like I was bad. Their controls, their authority made me hurt myself even more. It made me feel hopeless. It made me feel like my life was not worth anything. It made me want to give up.

But there were a couple of staff like RCUBE who showed kindness to me. They believed in me -they tried to help me. They made a difference in my life.

Jan, a nurse, knew I hated being locked up. Somehow she worked it out so that I could run errands off the ward or go with her to pick up supplies. She made it clear if I ran she would lose her job and I would end up there for a longer sentence. Her efforts made being locked up a bit bearable.

Lane, a social worker, believed in me. No matter how low I fell, no matter how many times I got in trouble - or hurt myself - she encouraged me to hang in - she showed me I was worth something. She went against what her manager told her and gave me her home phone number. She told me to call at the end of the day and talk to her mother until she got home. Both Lane and her mother empowered me with their support and kindness.

But what really made the difference for me was God. He showed me how much He valued me - His love never wavered no matter what I did or didn't do. He accepted me completely. The gentleness of His love changed me. It made me give up those things I was doing that were destroying myself.

And I think He brought those kind staff into my world to ultimately lead me to know Him. Because of Him - I want to be like RCUBE and Lane and Jan and so many others of you here - I want to show kindness and gentleness to others so they too can find freedom.

Hope and Dignity

"I was confused. You cleared my mind. I sold my soul. You bought it back for me and held me up and gave me dignity. You gave me hope when I was at the end and turned my lies back into truth again. You even called me friend." Anne Murray

I am overwhelmed with God's love. He reached out to me and in His gentle way, freed me from the awefulness of living on the street, fighting to survive and using my body as a target for all the rage and hatred I had for the people who hurt me. I often wonder why me. Why did He touch me and let me live? I should have died like so many of the people I knew, - like my friend, Sue. One night, she turned on Anne Murray's song, Snowbird, letting it play over and over while she swallowed a ton of pills. She was dead in the morning, - the song still playing, "But now I feel such emptiness within, for the the thing I want in life's the thing I can't win. Spread your tiny wings and fly away."

Someone once told me, the best revenge is to live my life happy and successful. It's been a fight, a struggle, a war. So many times, I wanted to do what Sue had done, let go, give up, "spread my wings and fly away," but God put a fight in me, a determination to live.

All those beatings, being kidnapped and raped, the crazy, terrifying street life, the drugs, the throwing up, the incarceration in jail, confined in a psych hopsital - somehow God used all that to make me strong. He didn't let me die. He wouldn't let me go even when I begged Him to kill me. He "bought my soul back and gave me dignity." He touched me, broke the chains and set me free, when nothing else worked.

Why me? Why not Sue? I had other friends who took their lives, or accidently died from overdosing or because of being so stoned and doing something weird. I used to climb to the top of buildings and stand on the edge with my arms out not caring that I could have fallen to my death. I thought I was invincible. Other times I just wanted to dare life to let me go.

I owe Him my life. The gratitude I feel makes me want to help people like Sue, to give them hope and let them know, if I can do it, they can too. With God, nothing is impossible. I have discovered, there is no darkness so black, no valley so low, He can not redeem it for his glory.


I am alive today because of Him, because of His touch on my life.

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.

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.