Questions

Why is it, that while I am searching for answers, yearning for meaning, that I neglect, purposefully ignore that which contains the answers, provides the meaning?

Why is it that I search for God but ignore his Word? Why is it that I ignore what he says while I cry for him to speak to me? Why do I shut my eyes tight while I yearn to see him working? Why do I hold out my arms to him and ignore his arms reaching toward me?

So why do I blame him for the struggles I have created? Why do I hold him responsible for my actions? Did he choose to sin? Has he ever held the blade? Was his the yearning for blood? Did he cause my pain?

When will I be honest with myself? When will I realize I am lying to myself? When will I take responsibility for my own life? When will I search for truth in truth's Source? When will I choose to look forward and not back?

When will I choose to stop existing and live?

Once Upon a Time...

Once upon a time...well, I wish it was "once upon a time." But this is no fairy tale, this is reality. My reality. But just as fairy tales disguise deeper, darker meanings, I will use "once upon a time" for you, my friends. I will tell the truth in the form of a story. So let me start once more...
Once upon a time there was a girl. She was a fairly ordinary girl. She lived with her fairly ordinary parents and two of her four fairly ordinary brothers. But she had a secret. And it was no ordinary secret. It was certainly no ordinary secret for a twelve-year-old girl to have. She knew this. She knew, but for four long years she had kept this secret. It was time to let go. It was time to seek help. And so she did. And the aftermath of that telling was terrible nearly beyond words.
But what was this secret? What secret could a twelve-year-old girl have of such terrible proportions so as to rip her very soul to shreds? It had a name, but the girl didn't know it. She didn't call it by that name when she sought help, nor for nearly a decade afterward. Even now, she resists that name and the label it imposes on her. The word? Abuse. Sexual molestation. The girl had been touched. Not in a platonic way, no. He touched her in all those secret places. His mouth followed his fingers, and he invited her to do the same. She was confused. Was this some new sort of game? She did as he asked, though. After all, she was lonely, and prior to this point he'd never seemed much interested in her. Nobody had. So she loved the attention. And so the next time he came to her, and the next, and the next, for months, she did as he asked. They incorporated all the childhood games into their "play," from paper dolls to War to dress-up. For her it was just another game, a way to spend time with her now-favorite friend. For him, well, who knows what it was for him, though one can guess. But as the months passed into years, she began to realize that this wasn't all fun and games. There was something wrong here, something dirty. Perhaps the need for secrecy should have tipped her off sooner, but what eight-year-old doesn't love secrets? By then, too, they'd moved on to more than just touch. She'd grown breasts, an early bloomer. He was fascinated by those breasts. He couldn't get enough of them. She didn't like this. She desired it to stop. It was wrong, she would tell him. But you're so sexy, he'd reply. I can't help it. She knew he was right, it was her fault. Guilt and shame kept her silent.
It was then that he started forcing the girl. Not physically, no. No, he manipulated her. He preyed on her loneliness, he played on her shame. And so it continued for more years. And it wasn't just touching anymore. Now it was all but actual intercourse, including oral sex, at least on her part. And by now the girl blamed most of this on herself. Oh, some small part of her knew that he was responsible as well, but would any of this have happened if she wasn't so sexy? Of course not. So it must be her fault.
She reached her breaking point the summer she was twelve, and he, fifteen. This had gone on long enough, and guilty as she was, she had to tell someone. She wanted help. She was at camp, Christian camp. She told her counselor. She told, and turned her life into living hell. Because when she told her counselor, and then the camp director, and finally her parents, they believed her when she claimed the blame. Not that he escaped condemnation, no, but she still shouldered the lion's share of responsibility.
But her parents' first reactions gave her hope. Her father admitted his shortcomings as a parent and promised to do a lot better. There were many tears. A lot of restrictions were placed on the girl. The girl was okay with that; she understood the need for consequences, and she certainly didn't want anything happening ever again. And when two nights later, her parents called her to their bedroom and informed her that this would never be mentioned again, she was relieved. She thought she was getting off easy. It wasn't until months later that she realized the truth. Not mentioning it meant not speaking of it directly. It didn't stop her parents from referring to it indirectly every time she did something wrong. It came to be a proof of her utter inability to do anything right, and unspoken testimony of her complete worthlessness. Not mentioning it gave her no chance to seek help, but that didn't matter that much since she didn't deserve any anyway. There was no trust left in her family. Her parents started fighting, and she knew it was her fault. Her mom, never the most trusting, started being suspicious of everyone and everything; the girl recognized and accepted the blame for this as well.
As the years passed, the girl learned the fine art of masking. She didn't call it that; she called it "being all things to all men," not for the purpose of evangelism, no; merely to survive. She lost track of the times she wiped away tears in the car and walked into school with a smile on her face. She lost track, too, of who she was. Everything from the times with him stabbed her over and over, leaving her heart open and bleeding. It was too much, and she buried it deeper and deeper. In so doing, she buried all of her other emotions, and was left floating on a sea of emptiness, drowning in nothingness. Those two, the pain and the nothing, were her whole life. She tried killing herself once, but stopped herself before she swallowed the pills. If she died, she would face God, and she hated God. He did nothing to help her, nothing to relieve the pain. Even though she was to blame, she was sorry, she wanted forgiveness. Eventually she reached the conclusion that what she had done was too bad for even God to forgive, and lost all hope. After all, she knew God was supposed to be the reason for living, but he had forsaken her, and life had no point.
She turned to other things for a while, looking for...something. She knew that what she had done with him had given her something, made her accepted. She turned to those things again. Her mind became a dirtier place than the average porn addict's. She fed it when she could, which was rarely. But she knew this was wrong. She sought help, this time from her youth pastor. He brushed her off, told her of a different counselor, a lady. Have your dad call her, he urged. She understood the awkwardness of gender differences, and asked her dad. She knew she was skirting the edge of "not mentioning it," but she didn't care. She was desperate. Her dad refused. You have to do it on your own, he said, no one else can help you. She believed him, but she knew she wasn't strong enough. So she decided to die. She was no longer afraid of God; she just didn't care anymore. Once more camp rescued her. Once more her parents ignored everything. Once more she sank back down into the pit of darkness. And so it continued.
The girl had no close friends, but she didn't deserve any. She had no thought of marriage, even though she wanted desperately for someone (anyone!) to love her; she knew that no one would ever want her if they knew what she had done. So she resigned herself to a lifetime of pain and tears, sorrow, anguish, regret.
College offered an opportunity for change, but she didn't expect much out of it. All her friends (she had a few, none that close) could talk about was boys and marriage. She hid her pain and gave them advice when they asked it; for some reason, they kept asking. She gave what help she could and caught a glimmer of hope: maybe she was good for something after all. But it wasn't enough to live for. Once more she intended to kill herself. Once more she was talked out of it. The pain grew yet more. Nothing would ease, nothing could relieve it.
Nothing, that is, until one desperate day she picked up a piece of sharp plastic and slashed it across her arm. It hurt, but then a strange thing happened. In the midst of the physical pain, all the emotional pain she had carried for so many years just faded away. For a few priceless hours, she tasted freedom. She bought a knife and did it again. Again she tasted that blessed relief. Freedom from the pain! All it took was the willingness to bleed, and she had that in abundance. She hated her body; seeing it bleed was no great hardship. Soon she was cutting not just for that overwhelming pain, but every normal pain and everyday stress. She worshiped the blade and the blood. It didn't take her long to realize that she had become a slave to the cutting, but she didn't mind. It gave her what she wanted from it, and she was content. She was happy. She knew the reckoning would come some day, but for now, she was free.
Her story doesn't end there. But the many things that come after, expulsion, firing, suicide attempt, mental hospital, marriage, baby, etc, are too new for a "once upon a time" story. Maybe someday that story will be told as well. Not today. Storytime is over for today, my friends.
This is my story. This is my reality. This is my life.

Darkness and Dawn?

You know how victories

Are followed by defeat?

You know how quickly day

Turns into black night?

You know how things looked better

But they were just getting worse?

The darkest night comes

Just before dawn, I thought

I guess the dawn comes

Just before oblivion

I started to see light

Rosy clouds and warm sun

But now I see only pain

Only darkness and black night