Yesterday, I had a tough conversation with a few new friends. One of my new friends asked me if I was interested in working with a ministry at my church, Soul Care. From what I can gather, this person had heard a bit about my testimony, and he was inspired by how I live for my future despite the harm from my past. He felt I had done a lot of work, if he only knew, and that I would be a great addition to the team he was building to help people who were suffering... broken people without hope. The people in need of Christ's love the most. People like who I was when I first came to Christ: the lost ones.
I told him I was very much interested in serving on this team, but that I would have to pray about what this would look like in my ever busy life. Is this where God would use me best? Would I be a good counselor? After he agreed that I should pray about my next steps, our conversation led to what my suffering was and how Christ has redeemed me. His wife sat alongside him as I took them back to a time of great darkness, pain, and trauma... my childhood.
When I was a child, I saw a lot of pain and ugliness. Addiction filled my house, along with physical, mental, and sexual abuse. People I loved, harmed me. People I relied on, abused my trust. The people meant to love me were sometimes the biggest beasts in my life, and I had no escape from the hell I faced. Not when the hell was my home.
I remember wanting to commit suicide at a very early age... around ten years old. Life was bleak, and I longed for an escape from the madness I faced daily. Death seemed like a welcome reprieve: an end to the pain. I'd be with my mom. I'd be face to face with Jesus. No one would miss me, anyway, or so I thought. I can remember walking down the street as a child and envisioning throwing myself in front of a moving truck. The image is seared into my mind like a brand: both swollen and tender. These thoughts clouded my mind on a continuous basis, but for some reason I never acted on them. Whenever the urge became overwhelming, I thought about my sister, my grandma, and the people I did have in my life who loved me. These people were enough to pull me back from the abyss, even at such an early age.
For most of my life, I hid behind success. If I could become someone of worth, perhaps I would feel worthy. I chased praise and accolades. When I reach this goal, I'll be enough. I would tell myself. But I was never enough. Never. With each new success, I felt myself slipping further and further down the slope of suicide. Why didn't I feel whole? Why was my heart still dark and tainted? What was the point? Regardless of what mask I wore, the pain persisted. In fact, it increased. I was infected, but I refused to peel back the layers I had so carefully hidden behind. How was I ever going to heal? Was that even a possibility?
One fateful day, my life was falling down around my ears. I had lost my marriage. I had lost my home. All of my success was draining from me like a plug had been pulled. The more I grasped for control, the faster it escaped me. I reached for a bottle of pills, stared into a picture of my mother, and dreamed of the moment we would be reunited. Then, a thought crossed my mind. What if you're pregnant? I scoffed at the idea. I had been told by countless doctors that I couldn't have children. Yet, the urge to take a pregnancy test pressed on. I remember saying aloud, "Alright, God, if I'm supposed to live, you'll make this pregnancy test positive." I took the test. It was positive.
My mouth fell open. I was going to be a mother. I sank to my knees, still clutching the pregnancy stick, and sobbed until tears no longer came. God had spared me. He had given me a child. A child I never believed I could have. From that moment, ten years ago, I vowed to be better. If not for myself, for my unborn child. Sean was born over nine months later, and with each shakey step I took forward, I have kept my promise to be better.
I wish I could tell you that the process was easy. That instantly I was healed. Healing doesn't work that way. I had to peel back the layers of pain, deal with one hurt at a time, and release my bitterness. I had to learn to forgive, and that forgiveness and reconciliation are not the same thing. I had to do counseling, loads of counseling. I still go to counseling, and I'm sure I still have years and years to go. I'll do the painful work, because it's in the pain that I'll find healing. It is in my brokenness that I see my beauty. My beauty that has risen from the ashes of my childhood.
If you're struggling, reach out. Life will never be better off without you. Suicide is final. There are no second chances when you're dead. Life is better on the other side of darkness. I know that now.