My blog-friend NorEaster has been hosting a series called “Storm Stories” this month. Today was my day to be guest blogger in the series. Visit here and read my story. (I’ve now posted it below, but click on the storm stories picture below to continue reading other people’s storm stories)
My Storm Story
I’ve had a lot of storms in my life. I really didn’t know which one to write about, so I decided to take you back to the beginning. Most of what has happened in my life is rooted in the original storm that began when I was still in my mother’s womb.
I was unwanted. From conception. My mother was a teenager. 16 years old. She lived with her grandparents, and when it was discovered that she was pregnant, the decision was made for her that she would give the baby up for adoption. After I was born, I was sent to a foster family, and around 6 weeks of age I was taken home by my parents. Adoptions back then were closed, so very limited non-identifying information was given to the adoptive parents.
It seems that I’ve always known I was adopted. It didn’t seem to bother me much as a young child. In fact, I think it was around age 7or 8 that the reality of it hit home. My younger sister was angry with me, and decided to inform me that I “wasn’t her real sister.” Why this stuck with me, I don’t know. She even got into huge trouble for saying it to me. But it churned around in my mind, and over time became the thing that I built upon.
My parents insisted that I was “chosen” and much loved. But all I knew is that my ‘real’ mom didn’t want me. There must have been something really wrong with me if my own mom didn’t want me. Something fundamentally wrong. Was I ugly? Stupid? Bad? All of the above? There wasn’t information available to tell me why this decision was made. People would tell me of the great sacrifice my real mom must have made for me. Choosing what was best for me by giving me a family who could love and care for me. These words fell to the ground under the weight of the knowledge that I was really unlovable. Over time, I would grow angry at people who said these things, although I never showed my anger to them. I was already learning to wear a mask on the outside.
I pretended to be proud of being different from my family, rather than ashamed. I refused to entertain any similarities, and would tell people that I was adopted, and there was no way I looked like my family, or acted like them. I know now that this hurt my family, but I was just a child trying to cope with the lies that were building up inside of me.
When I was in 6th grade, my parents pulled me out of our local Christian School and put me into public. We also left our small church where we were basically family with everyone, and began attending a new one. Two safety nets were gone. The school had moved buildings and was much farther away. As far as the church goes, I didn’t know that my parents had been abused by the pastor, who was into Shepherding, and wanted to control their lives… I only knew that I had lost everyone I loved outside of my family.
In 7th grade, there was a bully who tormented me mercilessly. Around this time my mother developed Ulcerated Colitis and Chrone’s disease. I remember seeing her lying naked on the bathroom floor in agony, and thinking she was going to die. I prayed that I would die instead.
I became suicidal. My parents had withdrawn from us, dealing with their own hurts, and my mother’s illness (I know that now). At first I tried to talk with them about how miserable I was, asking to go back to my old school, but they didn’t hear the desperation. Eventually I responded in kind, and withdrew from them.
Desperate for love, acceptance, and attention, I tried to fit in. I wasn’t allowed to dress like my peers, so I would borrow KISS, and DefLeppard shirts from a friend at school. I would put on makeup at school, and try and fit in. My parents would have been horrified beyond belief at my appearance. They were very legalistic back then, and I was not allowed to watch many movies, listen to secular music, wear make-up, or wear clothing like blue jeans or t-shirts to school.
My tormentor continued to break down my self esteem, and my fragile emotional state. Telling me daily how fat, ugly, and stupid I was. How uncool I was. Tripping me, pushing me, humiliating me, being nice only to draw me in and then turn on me. He validated every negative thought I had about myself and brought it into reality.
I began to cut myself. Partly because I was contemplating suicide, partly to get attention, and partly because it made me feel better… it made the emotional pain manageable. By the time my parents found out I was suicidal, it was way too late for them to connect with me. I was hidden away in my pain, and had cemented the lies into place that I was unloved, unlovable, and worthless. I had determined that I wasn’t meant to be alive, it was all a mistake, and that if I died everyone would be better off. I figured that nobody would cry at my funeral, so what did it matter if I was dead.
Except for one thing. I didn’t want to go to hell. I didn’t know if I would go to heaven if I killed myself, and I was so afraid of going to hell, so I couldn’t follow through as much as I desperately wanted to.
I lived like this for years. I hated the church, I hated Christians… they were judgmental and hypocritical. I couldn’t live up to all of the rules. I turned my back on church, although never on Jesus. I didn’t advertise my faith, knowing I wasn’t living it. College was a blur of alcohol, parties, whatever it took to keep the pain back, and hopefully kill myself without actually pulling the trigger myself. There were semesters where I was drunk every night.
I had an abortion. Something I swore I would never, ever do. But I was too ashamed to tell my parents that I had sex before marriage, the great sin. I had seen what happened in church to unwed mothers. The gossip, the ostracizing… The shame was too much, and I blocked it out for years.
Then I met the man who was to become my husband. I’d never been loved like this before. He wasn’t a Christian. In fact, he was a beer drinking, Motley Crue loving, mullet wearing guy (my mom did a lot of praying). One night Steve and I were out drinking, and over a pitcher of beer I began to tell him about my faith background. About Jesus. It was the weirdest thing, but sitting there in the bar, I began to feel God for the first time in years. The more I spoke, the more it wasn’t me speaking. Later, Steve told me that I said things to him (answered questions) that I couldn’t have possibly known what I was saying to him. I was so shocked and amazed that God would use me… a drunk, a loser, a terrible Christian…
Eventually, Steve accepted Jesus. We were married. And in the interest of time (I know this is getting long), I’ll just say that over the next 5 years, God and I worked together on putting the pieces of my life back together. After the birth of our son I had a breakdown over the abortion (ptsd), and very nearly killed myself finally. But with the help of a great counselor, I finally saw and accepted forgiveness for my sin. God delivered me from suicide. It had been such a part of my life for such a long time, that not wanting to die feels strange still.
Sure, we still have our issues and our storms. I’m pretty sure that as long as we live on this Earth there will be issues to deal with. But God has been so faithful, even when we haven’t been, that I know He won’t disappear. He’ll always be with us.
I began the story talking about being adopted, and how that led into other struggles. I’d like to end by telling you what God showed me about it.
********The Baby********
There was a baby, laying alone. Nearby was a group of three people huddled in the shadows, talking about the baby. They were discussing what to do with this child. The baby was an inconvenience, and something must be done.
I saw God, looking down on the scene with tears running down his face. He was crying for the child who wasn’t wanted. He reached down and scooped the baby up in his arms, and held her tight. After awhile, he looked around. A short distance away was a young couple standing in the light. They were also crying. They had been unable to have children, and they desperately wanted a little one to hold, love, and care for.
God looked at them with compassion. He looked down at the baby girl in his arms, and reached her towards the couple. Laying her in their arms, he smiled. Their tears turned to joy as they realized this child was now theirs.
**********
God doesn’t miss anything. He sees it all. He weeps for us when we are hurting. He laughs with us when we are happy. He holds us when we are alone.
What he did for me, he can do for you. He wants to hold you. Love you. Deliver you. Bring you out of the pain and struggle and into the light.
My favorite scripture verse is this…
Yet to all who received him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God— (John 1:12, NIV)
Even if we don’t belong to anyone on this earth, we can belong to God. We can be HIS child!
adget at my mom’s house a few months ago, and I finally threw one in my cart for my very own self! I hate, hate, hate trying to open cans with our old crappy can opener. My mom had gotten this for my dad, who had a stroke and lost the use of his left side.
