Transparency. Explanations. Part 2
This little series comes in no particular order. Just thought you should know that, haha. I'm trying to make sure it makes sense to a degree, but I hop around as my mind wanders. Sorry 'bout that.
Where were we? Oh, right...
So, as you know, my father died when I was about nine. My world changed then, and I'm not sure how I survived the following ten years. I sure didn't make it a point to survive.
One of the first things my mom did was put us in a Christian school. That was it; no going back. So, from fifth grade, Christian/private school was all I knew. I left all my friends, and Jordan Branton (my fourth grade crush), and started a whole new life in school. My first memory of that school was how foolish I felt in a skirt with everyone saying the "Christian Pledge of Allegiance." For one thing, I was a tomboy, and so the whole idea of having to wear a skirt or dress every single day was extremely distressing for me. Ugh. I still won't wear dresses. The last time I was in a dress was my wedding day. And it had been years before that. Anyway. So here I am in my ridiculous clothes in a classroom full of people that were all reciting a pledge that I'd never even heard before. I just stood there with my hand over my heart and wide eyes, acting like I knew the words. As I remember, the pledge that day sounded something like this, "I pledge allegiance to the Chrijjuhh laaah antooothefuliipminy...shuminiii..uhng.." It wasn't pretty. I rebelled as much as a ten year old could. I wore long jean skirts with a t-shirt and high top tennis shoes. No, I wouldn't wear a nice shirt, nor would I consent to anything but high tops. Mom made me wear knee-high socks, and I'd roll those bad boys down so that I had four-inch-thick ankle socks. Miserable times, those.
Gimme an O.J. on the rocks, please.
I had my first drink around that time, too. I may have been eleven. Most kids have a sip of beer or something, but no, my first drink was a screwdriver. I had a friend that lived down the street whose mom drank vodka like it was going out of style. She'd heard that in bars they mixed that with orange juice and it tasted good. So we had our screwdrivers. And oh, I liked that. Sure, it tasted funny, but it dulled so much and made us so giggly. I remember my mom calling home from work, and we were sitting there, drunk, talking to her, and she didn't know. See, without Dad around, Nana would pick us up from school and take us home. She lived right across the yard, and mom was at the hospital until 11:00 most nights, so we were alone. Not her fault, just the way things were. It's one of the millions of reasons why single parent families are so hard. We didn't have a choice, though. It just was.
FIRE!
Truth is, I was having a pretty tough time. I was lost in this new school and had no desire to be a part of it. I had a couple of misfit friends, but most of my time was spent sketching, walking, and wandering through woods. It was at this time that my fascination with fire grew. Somehow, watching the flames and seeing the fire eat whatever was burning made me feel better. I was an eleven year old pyro.
The early bird gets the cancer.
At twelve, I had my first cigarette, and smoking has been my crutch ever since. I quit briefly when I was fifteen, but by sixteen I was a full-on smoker again. What made me start? I decided I didn't care about living. I figured I might as well just die like Dad did. Smoking killed him, and it could have me, too.
Rough times, desperation, and an angel.
Mom started making us go to church again somewhere in here, and I got really close to Tonya, our youth pastor at the time. She even tutored me in math when I was in seventh grade.
Seventh grade, age thirteen, was one of the most desperate times of my life. Strange to think, but it's true. I was so incredibly depressed at that age. Unhappy, numb. I actually became so depressed one night that I wanted to die. I had nothing, or so I thought. I begged God to kill me, and when I didn't drop dead, I decided to do it myself. I remember sitting on the bed, trying to find the vein on my wrist to make sure I did it right, because I did not want to wake up. I wanted to die. And then, as I pressed the little razor blade to my wrist and felt the point break the skin, I froze. I started to lose my nerve. I started to think about my mom and my sister who would have to grieve me now along with my dad. I rubbed the blade against my wrist, back and forth, over and over. Thinking. Debating. Crying. Was my life worth saving? No. What would be the point of sticking around here any longer? Nothing. Almost talked myself into it again. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, positioned the blade, and then...the phone rang. The freaking phone rang. And rang. Finally, I answered it, because it was just too convenient. It was Tonya. She just wanted to check up on me. She loved me. Wanted to know if it was okay with me if she picked me up from school the next day. Was I sure I was okay? She'd see me tomorrow.
She doesn't know it, but she saved me that night.
Too late now.
I think I clung to Tonya because she was an adult that I didn't feel I had to protect, and she helped fill some of the void that I was desperately trying to fill. Then, a few months later, one night at youth group, she announced that it would be her last night. I looked at her and said, "So that's it? You're just leaving us?" She got all teary-eyed and said it was something she had to do. I walked out and didn't say another word. I haven't seen her since. I wish now I'd have thought past the moment, because I'd like for her to know that she made a difference. I'd like her to know just how important she was to me.
Never again.
When Tonya left, I took it as proof that God would indeed rip from me anyone that I got close to. I decided I wouldn't make that mistake again, and the walls went up. I didn't step foot in church again for months. Refused to go. No, I don't care about this new guy they got. He's not Tonya. Could never be Tonya. No, I didn't want to talk. I was fine.
I started smoking regularly. I started drinking more. I discovered marijuana. I discovered I could stay numb.
I've seen more than you could dream, buddy. Don't preach at me.
School was interesting at this point, as I was now required to take "Bible classes". My Bible teacher would say things like "God is great all the time, and all the time, God is great!", to which I would jut my chin out, look him dead in the eye, and say "God screwed me." Ever see a thirteen year old make a grown man trip over his own words? Yeah. I was a handful. A spiritual nightmare for those poor guys. And all I wanted was to be left alone.
If it'll make you shut up, fine.
Finally, after about six months of everyone harassing me, I gave in to my sister and went to stupid church with her. I met Jon, and immediately hated him. He knew it, too; I made sure of it. I started going to church again, not for God, but because Christine was there. Christine could get cigarettes, weed, and alcohol much more readily than I was able to. It became a game. What could we do to make Jon miserable? How did we get rid of him? I don't remember everything about that time, but one thing I remember vividly: the anger. I stayed perpetually, explosively angry all the time. And the more Jon tried to help me, the more he tried to fix it and reach me, the more I hated him for it.
I ♥ New York
We went on a mission trip when I was barely fourteen, to New York. A lot happened on that trip. First: I fell in love with the land there--the mountains, lakes, smells. It was beautiful. Second: while passing out peanut butter sandwiches to the homeless in New York City, I was touched for the first time in a long time. I was able to make a difference, if only a small one. Third: Christine and I found a place in the woods where we could sneak off to smoke. Fourth: my sister decided that what we were doing was wrong. She was the first to catch on. Smart girl, that one. Candi decided on that trip that she was done screwing around, and she wanted to make a difference. So then, it was just me and Christine. Fifth: Christine got in a lot of trouble. Her parents were called to come get her. I was alone. Lastly, and most importantly: Jon made a mistake that he didn't know was a mistake until it was too late. See, Christine's father was abusive. He got his jollies out of throwing her into walls and shoving her to the ground, kicking, and punching her. I knew it, Candi knew it, but that was it. One night in the mess hall, she got belligerent with Jon and said she was going to see me and tried to push past Jon to get to me. He tried to keep her from causing a scene in front of everyone, and he put a hand on each of her arms to keep her from moving. She freaked and pushed him, and jerked out of his reach, then she ran out the door. The poor guy looked so lost, he had no clue what was going on. All he'd tried to do was stop her, but it looked so much worse because of what she did in reaction to it. I stood up and tried to go after her. Jon looked at me, and I screamed, "You're just like him!" I tore off through the dormitory. I knew he hadn't hurt her, but he'd scared her. I could see that tiny flash of panic cross her face. I wasn't angry because of what Jon had done--he really hadn't done anything. I was angry because of what her father was doing, and my helplessness to stop it. I couldn't fix it, and she wouldn't let me help. I stayed in that dorm for hours and refused to come out. Strangely enough, I didn't mind Tammy, his wife. I just kept saying that he was just like her father, almost like I was trying to make sure I believed it enough to blame Jon. My sister and Tammy finally convinced me to come outside. I walked out and stood there. I don't remember all of what happened, but I remember shoving him away from me, screaming "I hate you! Leave me alone!" and running away to our lake. Hours later, I actually sat down and talked to him. Somewhere over the next day or so, Jon and I made a tentative peace. God and I had a temporary truce. I began to see what could be if I'd let it. But I still didn't let it. Because that meant I had to be vulnerable, I had to take down that wall, and that wasn't happening. Never again, remember?
My rock.
Somehow, in the midst of some very rocky times, we were still able to make a difference, and my life changed. I started to see Jon as someone who might just understand me, after all. Despite myself, I slowly started to talk to him. He became the person I ran to when I couldn't handle life, when I felt like I'd explode. For a while, he was like a lifeline. I called him many nights at home, invading his time and his home, crying or just needing to talk. He never complained. He never wavered. He kept me sane, and did his best to keep me from wandering too far. He never gave up on me. Never sugar coating, but never so harsh that I couldn't come to him. Little did I realize he was also steadily leading me home.
I hope he knows how thankful I am for all those times.
Help me. Hold me. Please don't leave me.
Finally, when I was fifteen, I had reached the point where I was actively seeking God. I finally dropped to my knees; I gave up. I saw truth, unaffected by my own hatred and hurt. I felt His arms around me for the first time. Finally, for a time, I was brilliantly happy. For a time, everything was right. For a time, I was home again.
More to come.
--------------------------------------------------
Where were we? Oh, right...
So, as you know, my father died when I was about nine. My world changed then, and I'm not sure how I survived the following ten years. I sure didn't make it a point to survive.
One of the first things my mom did was put us in a Christian school. That was it; no going back. So, from fifth grade, Christian/private school was all I knew. I left all my friends, and Jordan Branton (my fourth grade crush), and started a whole new life in school. My first memory of that school was how foolish I felt in a skirt with everyone saying the "Christian Pledge of Allegiance." For one thing, I was a tomboy, and so the whole idea of having to wear a skirt or dress every single day was extremely distressing for me. Ugh. I still won't wear dresses. The last time I was in a dress was my wedding day. And it had been years before that. Anyway. So here I am in my ridiculous clothes in a classroom full of people that were all reciting a pledge that I'd never even heard before. I just stood there with my hand over my heart and wide eyes, acting like I knew the words. As I remember, the pledge that day sounded something like this, "I pledge allegiance to the Chrijjuhh laaah antooothefuliipminy...shuminiii..uhng.." It wasn't pretty. I rebelled as much as a ten year old could. I wore long jean skirts with a t-shirt and high top tennis shoes. No, I wouldn't wear a nice shirt, nor would I consent to anything but high tops. Mom made me wear knee-high socks, and I'd roll those bad boys down so that I had four-inch-thick ankle socks. Miserable times, those.
Gimme an O.J. on the rocks, please.
I had my first drink around that time, too. I may have been eleven. Most kids have a sip of beer or something, but no, my first drink was a screwdriver. I had a friend that lived down the street whose mom drank vodka like it was going out of style. She'd heard that in bars they mixed that with orange juice and it tasted good. So we had our screwdrivers. And oh, I liked that. Sure, it tasted funny, but it dulled so much and made us so giggly. I remember my mom calling home from work, and we were sitting there, drunk, talking to her, and she didn't know. See, without Dad around, Nana would pick us up from school and take us home. She lived right across the yard, and mom was at the hospital until 11:00 most nights, so we were alone. Not her fault, just the way things were. It's one of the millions of reasons why single parent families are so hard. We didn't have a choice, though. It just was.
FIRE!
Truth is, I was having a pretty tough time. I was lost in this new school and had no desire to be a part of it. I had a couple of misfit friends, but most of my time was spent sketching, walking, and wandering through woods. It was at this time that my fascination with fire grew. Somehow, watching the flames and seeing the fire eat whatever was burning made me feel better. I was an eleven year old pyro.
The early bird gets the cancer.
At twelve, I had my first cigarette, and smoking has been my crutch ever since. I quit briefly when I was fifteen, but by sixteen I was a full-on smoker again. What made me start? I decided I didn't care about living. I figured I might as well just die like Dad did. Smoking killed him, and it could have me, too.
Rough times, desperation, and an angel.
Mom started making us go to church again somewhere in here, and I got really close to Tonya, our youth pastor at the time. She even tutored me in math when I was in seventh grade.
Seventh grade, age thirteen, was one of the most desperate times of my life. Strange to think, but it's true. I was so incredibly depressed at that age. Unhappy, numb. I actually became so depressed one night that I wanted to die. I had nothing, or so I thought. I begged God to kill me, and when I didn't drop dead, I decided to do it myself. I remember sitting on the bed, trying to find the vein on my wrist to make sure I did it right, because I did not want to wake up. I wanted to die. And then, as I pressed the little razor blade to my wrist and felt the point break the skin, I froze. I started to lose my nerve. I started to think about my mom and my sister who would have to grieve me now along with my dad. I rubbed the blade against my wrist, back and forth, over and over. Thinking. Debating. Crying. Was my life worth saving? No. What would be the point of sticking around here any longer? Nothing. Almost talked myself into it again. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, positioned the blade, and then...the phone rang. The freaking phone rang. And rang. Finally, I answered it, because it was just too convenient. It was Tonya. She just wanted to check up on me. She loved me. Wanted to know if it was okay with me if she picked me up from school the next day. Was I sure I was okay? She'd see me tomorrow.
She doesn't know it, but she saved me that night.
Too late now.
I think I clung to Tonya because she was an adult that I didn't feel I had to protect, and she helped fill some of the void that I was desperately trying to fill. Then, a few months later, one night at youth group, she announced that it would be her last night. I looked at her and said, "So that's it? You're just leaving us?" She got all teary-eyed and said it was something she had to do. I walked out and didn't say another word. I haven't seen her since. I wish now I'd have thought past the moment, because I'd like for her to know that she made a difference. I'd like her to know just how important she was to me.
Never again.
When Tonya left, I took it as proof that God would indeed rip from me anyone that I got close to. I decided I wouldn't make that mistake again, and the walls went up. I didn't step foot in church again for months. Refused to go. No, I don't care about this new guy they got. He's not Tonya. Could never be Tonya. No, I didn't want to talk. I was fine.
I started smoking regularly. I started drinking more. I discovered marijuana. I discovered I could stay numb.
I've seen more than you could dream, buddy. Don't preach at me.
School was interesting at this point, as I was now required to take "Bible classes". My Bible teacher would say things like "God is great all the time, and all the time, God is great!", to which I would jut my chin out, look him dead in the eye, and say "God screwed me." Ever see a thirteen year old make a grown man trip over his own words? Yeah. I was a handful. A spiritual nightmare for those poor guys. And all I wanted was to be left alone.
If it'll make you shut up, fine.
Finally, after about six months of everyone harassing me, I gave in to my sister and went to stupid church with her. I met Jon, and immediately hated him. He knew it, too; I made sure of it. I started going to church again, not for God, but because Christine was there. Christine could get cigarettes, weed, and alcohol much more readily than I was able to. It became a game. What could we do to make Jon miserable? How did we get rid of him? I don't remember everything about that time, but one thing I remember vividly: the anger. I stayed perpetually, explosively angry all the time. And the more Jon tried to help me, the more he tried to fix it and reach me, the more I hated him for it.
I ♥ New York
We went on a mission trip when I was barely fourteen, to New York. A lot happened on that trip. First: I fell in love with the land there--the mountains, lakes, smells. It was beautiful. Second: while passing out peanut butter sandwiches to the homeless in New York City, I was touched for the first time in a long time. I was able to make a difference, if only a small one. Third: Christine and I found a place in the woods where we could sneak off to smoke. Fourth: my sister decided that what we were doing was wrong. She was the first to catch on. Smart girl, that one. Candi decided on that trip that she was done screwing around, and she wanted to make a difference. So then, it was just me and Christine. Fifth: Christine got in a lot of trouble. Her parents were called to come get her. I was alone. Lastly, and most importantly: Jon made a mistake that he didn't know was a mistake until it was too late. See, Christine's father was abusive. He got his jollies out of throwing her into walls and shoving her to the ground, kicking, and punching her. I knew it, Candi knew it, but that was it. One night in the mess hall, she got belligerent with Jon and said she was going to see me and tried to push past Jon to get to me. He tried to keep her from causing a scene in front of everyone, and he put a hand on each of her arms to keep her from moving. She freaked and pushed him, and jerked out of his reach, then she ran out the door. The poor guy looked so lost, he had no clue what was going on. All he'd tried to do was stop her, but it looked so much worse because of what she did in reaction to it. I stood up and tried to go after her. Jon looked at me, and I screamed, "You're just like him!" I tore off through the dormitory. I knew he hadn't hurt her, but he'd scared her. I could see that tiny flash of panic cross her face. I wasn't angry because of what Jon had done--he really hadn't done anything. I was angry because of what her father was doing, and my helplessness to stop it. I couldn't fix it, and she wouldn't let me help. I stayed in that dorm for hours and refused to come out. Strangely enough, I didn't mind Tammy, his wife. I just kept saying that he was just like her father, almost like I was trying to make sure I believed it enough to blame Jon. My sister and Tammy finally convinced me to come outside. I walked out and stood there. I don't remember all of what happened, but I remember shoving him away from me, screaming "I hate you! Leave me alone!" and running away to our lake. Hours later, I actually sat down and talked to him. Somewhere over the next day or so, Jon and I made a tentative peace. God and I had a temporary truce. I began to see what could be if I'd let it. But I still didn't let it. Because that meant I had to be vulnerable, I had to take down that wall, and that wasn't happening. Never again, remember?
My rock.
Somehow, in the midst of some very rocky times, we were still able to make a difference, and my life changed. I started to see Jon as someone who might just understand me, after all. Despite myself, I slowly started to talk to him. He became the person I ran to when I couldn't handle life, when I felt like I'd explode. For a while, he was like a lifeline. I called him many nights at home, invading his time and his home, crying or just needing to talk. He never complained. He never wavered. He kept me sane, and did his best to keep me from wandering too far. He never gave up on me. Never sugar coating, but never so harsh that I couldn't come to him. Little did I realize he was also steadily leading me home.
I hope he knows how thankful I am for all those times.
Help me. Hold me. Please don't leave me.
Finally, when I was fifteen, I had reached the point where I was actively seeking God. I finally dropped to my knees; I gave up. I saw truth, unaffected by my own hatred and hurt. I felt His arms around me for the first time. Finally, for a time, I was brilliantly happy. For a time, everything was right. For a time, I was home again.
More to come.
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