Just as a little disclaimer, I'm probably going to be writing this fast and furiously and I'm not really going to try and be an "author" about it. I'm writing this as a way to vent and also to share my testimony. So please excuse my writing if it becomes poor and all over the place. And I may purposely be a little vague to protect the identities of a few people involved.
Gosh it sounds like a murder mystery or something doesn't it?
Well, I guess it all started when I was 12 years old. My parents divorced when I was six and my brother (who would have been 8 at the time) and I lived with our mom in a little apartment not far from my fathers. Even though we lived close to my dad, I can't remember seeing him much as a kid. To this day, I'm not entirely sure why that was. My parents still blame each other for that. Either my dad didn't want to see us that much, or my mom wouldn't let us go. The jury's still out on that one.
Eventually my mom met and married my stepfather, and we moved to his house. It all happened very fast. I can remember meeting him once, and then my next memory is them getting married and us packing and moving. It was only a half hour away from our old house, but it felt like another world away. There was a Catholic church down the street, and although my mom was raised Catholic, we weren't the faithful kind and only went on holidays and to the occasional Sunday school.
I'll leave my mom's testimony for her to share some day, but when I was 12 she was saved and we began to look for a new church. We found a Baptist church not far from our home and that was where it all started. As a 12 year old girl who was not used to going to church, this was all very new to me. The church we were going to was nice, and they believed in salvation, but they didn't preach it from the pulpit. Never had an alter call. They were very luke warm in their convictions. And to be honest, a bit snotty. They were nice to your face, but you could tell they spoke about you behind your back. They were the kind of Christians that thought they were better than everyone else. The kind that rubbed you the wrong way. And in the midst of all that, I was saved. Yep, just like that. And I can't even remember the date. The greatest day of my life and the beginning of my walk with Christ and it passed without notice. Because in that church, although they believed in salvation, it wasn't celebrated like it is in other church's. They were happy for you of course, but they didn't announce it to the congregation. No one praised the Lord. At least not openly. So I know I was saved at 12 years old, but it wasn't very special to me. At least not then.
Eventually my mom realized that the church we were going to was not for us, and we began searching for a new one. A series of (kinda funny) events led us to a church I will refer to as BC. Boy was that ever different! The people here were excited and on fire for the Lord. They sang His praises, they threw up their hands to worship Him. The preacher spit fire from the pulpit. And he was fun! He was the most awesome guy I had ever met! He was a follower of Jesus and had FUN doing it! It was unbelievable to me! He was like a big kid with a heart after Jesus and I wanted so much what he had. From the pulpit I learned about conviction, I learned about how much Jesus sacrificed for me when He died in my place. I was excited to go to church. This finally felt real to me. But somehow, as ashamed as I am to say it, it wasn't enough.
My mom changed so quickly. She started making new rules and taking away privileges. She started making me copy verses out of the Bible. She wouldn't let me do the same things I used to do with my friends. As a pre-teen, this was simply not acceptable to me. We fought all the time. ALL THE TIME. I was dealing with a low self esteem stemming from years of watching beautiful people on TV and struggling with weight. And from not having a strong father figure in my life. I wanted to be accepted by my friends. I wanted to start high school in a few years and be popular. I loved my friends more than I loved Jesus. It's horrid but it's true. We went to church Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night. And even though I was excited for Jesus in front of my fellow church members, I could turn around and talk filthy with my friends. I would come home and tell them how glad I was that it was over and how my mom forced me to go.
And what's funny is, none of this made me popular. I had friends yes, and we had a lot of fun together but I was never the prettiest, funniest, coolest girl in school. I did the whole lying, two faced act and it didn't make me feel better about myself. I desperately wanted to be a good Christian and be involved in God's work but I had given my heart to the world. I wanted the world to look upon me and deem me acceptable and I ignored the tug at my heart and the voice in my head saying "I love you and have always accepted you. I am right here waiting for you. I always have been." God was telling me that all I ever wanted was waiting in His arms. And I denied Him again and again.
And my mom and I kept fighting. We would get physical. I told her I hated her, she would tell me she hated me too. She was a baby Christian and so was I, but I had no desire to give into the conviction I was feeling and turn from my rebellious ways. I would write evil things on the walls in black marker, just to scare her. But I was scaring myself. I was sinking into a depression of my own making. Because I wanted attention. I wanted someone to validate me. I wanted someone to whisk me away from all my troubles and tell me I was beautiful and I that I was loved. I hated myself. I cut my arms. Not enough to cause real damage, because all I wanted was attention. I wanted someone to feel sorry for me. I wanted someone to tell my mom she was wrong for trying to limit me and she was wrong for the mean and hurtful things she did. I was right and she was wrong.
Eventually the fighting got to be too much, and that's when my mom decided to ask the Pastor of BC for family counseling. She was afraid of me, and afraid for my brother. I don't even think my stepfather was a true Christian at this point, or if he was he didn't have a very strong walk with God. We met with the Pastor for a while after mid-week service. He listened to me and helped me deal with my thoughts and emotions. I loved talking to him. I actually couldn't wait for service to end so that his attention would be on me. This awesome preacher with a strong walk with God would listen to me and joke with me and tell me that everything would be ok if I would just give my heart over completely to Jesus. If I would truly walk with Him. And I wanted to listen to him, I really did. I knew he was right and I wanted so very much for him to be proud of me, to think I was a good Christian. But that was the problem, I was so desperate for his love and acceptance I again denied God and placed my value and my self esteem in my Pastor. Because I thought he would be like a father to me. And that made me feel special. I felt almost chosen. So now my heart was split between my friends and pleasing my Pastor, and almost none of it was truly given to God.
I'm not sure exactly how it came about, but my Pastor's wife, who I will call Mrs. B, started asking me to come over their house once in a while. Sometimes to babysit their two kids or sometimes to just simply hang out. I fell in love with their family. I wished so badly that it was mine. Even though I knew no family was perfect, their family was what I pictured as close to perfect as you could get. When I was there I could be the Christian that I so wanted to be and I knew no one would judge me for it. In fact, that would make them proud! It was a win win! As I grew closer to their family, I naturally grew closer to the Lord. I still had so far to go, but I was doing better. And I gave my Pastor's family all the credit. I was talking to the Lord more and trying a little harder to please Him, but I still gave my heart and my value to people instead of to Him.
My mom and I were still at odds and everyone saw that the counseling could only do so much. I would promise to do better and I would for a little while but eventually the vicious cycle we were on would start anew. I still had such a low self-worth and looked for validation in all the wrong places. I loved my pastor and his family, but I still loved my friends. I would do awful things with them. We shoplifted. We tried smoking. We even experimented with drugs once. I wanted so badly to be cool that I would try anything. I would follow them anywhere. I would do whatever they told me. I took no stand. I rarely said no. I felt guilty for letting my Pastor down. I felt guilty for being such a failure as a Christian.
As I grew closer to my Pastor's family however, I kind of grew farther from my mother. Not because they encouraged that in any way, but simply because I saw this perfect family and was angry at my mom for not giving it to me. If only I had been raised a Christian. If only they had been my parents. If only I could just stay here forever. And I was staying there more and more. Sometimes for a a week at a time. Sometimes I would get in a fight with my mom and she would let me go over there and skip school so she wouldn't have to deal with me. And I loved that. There was nothing I loved more than spending time with their family.
But one night, everything fell apart. My mom and I were at each others throats. I couldn't stand it anymore. I went upstairs to my room and found the knife I had hidden in my closet and tore my arms to shreds. My mom called the police on me. They took me to the hospital. My mom left me there...and told my father to come pick me up.
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I think that's enough for one night.
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