I know, adult speaking, that Emily wouldn’t gasp, or wag her head, or punish me, or condemn me… I know that… but I can’t let her know, I can’t… I want so much to get it out, to talk, to use words, to take it’s power away.. but Emily…. that’s like.. like telling my husband. I can’t. I like them too much, and I don’t want them to see me like that.
I remember the first time going to the psychiatrist. I had already made up my mine I wasn’t going to talk, after all my dad was paying her, probably to feed him information. He probably paid her double since he’s so rich and likes to throw his money around. Hide the problem child. Accuse her of lying, fantasizing, enjoying it. Send her to a shrink, she’ll never be the same again. Instead week after week, I just went away for an hour. Win win. She got paid, I got an hour of peace and quiet – and safety. I was the perfect target client.
I always felt like I didn’t belong. I was the one hanging in the closet on a coat hanger. Or, on the back of a door, on a coat hook, thanks to my older brother. Sometimes he hung me on the doorknob by my underwear. I’d be the one hiding in the corner of the closet so I could cry and not be accused of being a cry baby or “too sensitive”. I’d climb a tree and pretend I lived there, and not in the house the tree was next to. I’d run away in the woods and stay gone all day… no one looked for me.
I would sit on the roof top of our house for hours, or go to bed early and no one sought me out. No one missed me when I would disappear. They didn’t care. They only cared when they wanted something, when they wanted to use me or show me things or make me do things I didn’t want to do.
I enjoyed solitude, being alone, the quiet, the safety, but I didn’t enjoy the teasing. The name calling. The unlove. The hitting. The feeling like I couldn’t sit down at school because it just hurt so much “down there”. I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to hurt that much but it made me sit along the wall, in the back, in places I wouldn’t be seen. No one else seemed to hurt like I did, maybe I was doing something wrong. It made me do things I didn’t know I shouldn’t do, and made people not like me. They would come to my house and then never come back. Some came, but spent more time with my brother than with me, with the door closed, and locked from the inside by a moved dresser.
I was a loner. I was a stoner. I was a drinker. I liked to be numb. Numb made me not care if I was an outcast in my own family, and doing drugs gained me many friends. They especially liked when my parents would go away for a few weeks, and we’d have a 2 week keg party at my house. I got popular pretty quick then… but then I learned fast that the football players that came, were not only looking for free beer. I wanted to be numb. All I cared about was the numb part. It was great until I overdosed. I did that on purpose. I couldn’t live. It was the only way it would stop, to get so high I’d never come back. I remember the ER doctor asking me if I wanted to go home after I woke up. I said “no”, but he didn’t believe me either. He sent me home. With him. Again. I should have doubled the drugs. I should have smoked more. Drank more. I should have just finished it off.
God adopted me when I was 21. When I was 15, II was informally adopted into a real life family. I could go to their house any time, day or night. I could sleep there, I had my own room. It was a safe house. I used it often. They were so good to me. I cherish them for being a picture of Christ for me. They let me cry. They held me. They talked to me, and they listened. For the first time I had someone listen, and believe, at least I thought they did. I think they did. I’d come home from college and go to their house instead of my parents. The only thing that kept me going home was my dog. Dillon was my on-earth savior. And so was this family. They were both for me. They didn’t call me names, hit me, hang me in closets, lock me in the attic, or have sex with me. It was so weird, but God gave me that. I still have that family, and I so love them as if they were my real natural family. I think God gave me them to show me how he would eventually adopt me.
Have I forgotten that HE has adopted me?
I would wake up feeling so gross. Sometimes I’d still have vomit on my pillow, or my pajamas. I threw up a lot. I tried not to because usually that landed me at home, alone with him. I’d be fine, so he’d take me on errands, which meant about 4-5 pubs, and a lot of smelly drunk men. I’d want to go to school when he was home, to get away, but I couldn’t help throwing up.
I would always get chastised for taking long showers. I’d make them as hot as I could to burn the unclean grossness off of me. I’d take an hour long shower in burning well water and come out feeling like I needed to just get back in. I could never get clean. I could never get rid of that smell, or that taste. That feeling. I still feel it and I still scrub, and I still take very long showers. I think about what they did, and I feel the grossness all over again.
I know Jesus makes sin whiter than snow… he makes it clean, but I never felt.. or saw.. or realized this could be made clean. I know, in my mind, in my adult mind, that this applies to me, that he will – has made me clean; and yet I still feel so dirty. I still feel so gross. I still feel like I have this label on me – she had sex with her dad. Not the other way around mind you… Freud would say that is poignant, the order in which that sentence came out. I suppose he might be right. It was the other way around, but I was there, I was a part. I didn’t stop it. I didn’t scream. I didn’t tell. I just went away. That makes me guilty, and no one was afraid to point that out.
I’m so scared to tell. I’m so scared to let the voice be heard. I’m terrified for the words to come out of my mouth. You can’t take them back. They will be out, exposed. I will be out. Exposed. Everyone will know, and will look, and will stare in disbelief. Fingers will point and I will be accused. Again. I will be laughed at. Disbelieved. I will be naked. Unclean. Thrown out. I will be known, and he will know I told. He will know, some how. And when everyone learns who/what I am, I will be left alone.
LIES — I KNOW… but lies I believed and they keep repeating on the tape and I need to re-record the tape. I need to be exposed, to expose the sin, against me and against others. I need to be free. I and so enslaved to this and it’s got to stop. I can’t live like this and if I keep living like this it’s like Jesus doesn’t matter – doesn’t mean a thing, and He does. He is everything… but my life doesn’t reflect that right now.
Father “Redeem me for the sake of your steadfast love”. Make me like new snow. Heal me. Help me. Please, I beg you. Shower me with your grace and mercy, and help me to see it in a tangible way. I need you, your light, your forgiveness. Please, Lord, help me in this sea. Help me..
“On the cross, Jesus felt shame but was innocent. He suffered the shame of others that was placed on him.”
“Jesus… based on his belief and trust in God and his delight in that joy before him; he was not controlled by the shame he endured.”