The next month passed quickly, but was full of morning sickness. Just as I was starting to feel better, it was time for the retreat. You could feel the excitement and anticipation in the air as we drove two hours to Tucson and the church that was holding the retreat. Out we piled from the van, luggage in hand, ready for action.
After unpacking, we were led into a huge sanctuary where the weekend itinerary was unfolded and staff introductions were made. The first part of the retreat consisted of group activities which left me feeling disappointed. I was expecting more. I wanted a miracle; I needed answers. Getting to know a group of girls, which I would probably never see again in my lifetime, was not what I had been looking for out of this retreat. So with doubt grabbing hold, I headed to that first evenings service.
The Reverend from the host church was the special speaker that night. I honestly don’t remember the details of that service. What I do remember is the feeling that came over me while I sat there. After the service ended and everyone left, I continued to sit there in the pew. I sat there with tears rolling down my face as I swam in questions. What was I going to do with this baby? Should I put it up for adoption? Should I try to raise it on my own?
Seeing my plight, the Reverend quietly joined me and asked if I wanted to talk. It was at this point that the dam finally broke. All my emotions and fears came bursting out in waves of pain. I hunched over and wailed in agony. Quietly the Reverend sat there, holding me as I rocked back and forth in uncontrollable sobs. As the waves of my emotional release slowed, I began to unfold my story to the Reverend.
He listened intently as I spoke of my broken home life, the rapes I had gone through, and my current condition. Like a scared child, I spilled out my torments, but my heart grew heavier and heavier. I knew what I had to do. It wasn’t what I necessarily wanted to do, but it was what I needed to do. I couldn’t raise a child. I was in no shape to be parent and love unconditionally when I had no example of it myself.
That weekend ended up being more than a spiritual retreat for me. It was a life focusing implosion. I had finally determined to put the baby up for adoption.
Pregnant at 17
Being pregnant as a teenager is like being hit with a ton of bricks. Despite how this conception occurred, I decided that I would follow through with the pregnancy. Whether I would parent the child myself was a different subject. I argued daily with myself and my parents about the decision. I listed the pros and the cons, but with the passing of each month, the decision became more and more difficult.
Summer faded, and soon it was time for school to start back up. Senior year was suppose to be full of parties, friends, and fun. I started senior year irrevocably pregnant. I quickly found out who my true friends were as news of my unfortunate situation spread across the campus. The lunch table I had sat at the previous year had been filled beyond capacity with friends. During senior year, however, it was a sparse skeleton crew of loyalists. It was disheartening to learn, when put to the test, how fickle many of my friends turned out to be. Those that did remain strong provided me with a valuable backbone of support.
To parent or not to parent: that was the question. I had no support from home, I was young and inexperienced, and I had no money. With these things in mind, you would think the answer would have been simple, but it wasn’t. With each day I felt more and more attached to the baby growing inside of me.
While sitting in my advanced biology class, at the start of senior year, I noticed that the guy I had admired from a far for several years was sitting right in front of me. He noticed my shy smile and turned around in his seat to ask me what was new. I quickly flipped through my biology book and flashed him a picture of a pregnant woman. His expression was priceless. At that moment all the blood seemed to drain from his face as his eyes filled with shock. He quickly turned to his friend who was seated next to him and audibly whispered, “She’s pregnant!”
To my surprise, my attempt at scaring him away had failed. On the way out of class that day, he invited me to attend a church function where he was speaking. I agreed to go with him out of curiosity. His response to my situation was shocking. At first he was stunned, but he quickly seemed to set it aside and look at me, not my pregnancy.
That weekend he picked me up and drove me to a church that seemed to be overflowing with excited teenagers and young adults. He led me to a seat near the front just as the service was about to begin. I was full of anxiety. I had always grown up in church, but somehow being pregnant made me feel out of place. My date quickly went on stage and said, “Hi everyone, my name is David. I want to tell you about my experience at Chrysalis….” David then proceeded to talk about an amazing experience he had over the summer getting closer to God and in the process learning to love himself.
As David stood on that stage sharing his story, he smiled at me. His eyes were so full of passion and hope. I wanted that. I wanted to know what it was like to be loved. I wanted to stop hurting. One by one, more and more teenagers went on stage to share their experiences from this retreat. It was a service full of laughter and tears.
By the end of the night I felt emotionally drained. As David drove me home that evening, we talked about all of the different testimonies. He told me another retreat was coming up in the next month, and that if I was interested in going, he would sponsor me. I quickly agreed. I was hungry for what these people had spoken of.
Summer faded, and soon it was time for school to start back up. Senior year was suppose to be full of parties, friends, and fun. I started senior year irrevocably pregnant. I quickly found out who my true friends were as news of my unfortunate situation spread across the campus. The lunch table I had sat at the previous year had been filled beyond capacity with friends. During senior year, however, it was a sparse skeleton crew of loyalists. It was disheartening to learn, when put to the test, how fickle many of my friends turned out to be. Those that did remain strong provided me with a valuable backbone of support.
To parent or not to parent: that was the question. I had no support from home, I was young and inexperienced, and I had no money. With these things in mind, you would think the answer would have been simple, but it wasn’t. With each day I felt more and more attached to the baby growing inside of me.
While sitting in my advanced biology class, at the start of senior year, I noticed that the guy I had admired from a far for several years was sitting right in front of me. He noticed my shy smile and turned around in his seat to ask me what was new. I quickly flipped through my biology book and flashed him a picture of a pregnant woman. His expression was priceless. At that moment all the blood seemed to drain from his face as his eyes filled with shock. He quickly turned to his friend who was seated next to him and audibly whispered, “She’s pregnant!”
To my surprise, my attempt at scaring him away had failed. On the way out of class that day, he invited me to attend a church function where he was speaking. I agreed to go with him out of curiosity. His response to my situation was shocking. At first he was stunned, but he quickly seemed to set it aside and look at me, not my pregnancy.
That weekend he picked me up and drove me to a church that seemed to be overflowing with excited teenagers and young adults. He led me to a seat near the front just as the service was about to begin. I was full of anxiety. I had always grown up in church, but somehow being pregnant made me feel out of place. My date quickly went on stage and said, “Hi everyone, my name is David. I want to tell you about my experience at Chrysalis….” David then proceeded to talk about an amazing experience he had over the summer getting closer to God and in the process learning to love himself.
As David stood on that stage sharing his story, he smiled at me. His eyes were so full of passion and hope. I wanted that. I wanted to know what it was like to be loved. I wanted to stop hurting. One by one, more and more teenagers went on stage to share their experiences from this retreat. It was a service full of laughter and tears.
By the end of the night I felt emotionally drained. As David drove me home that evening, we talked about all of the different testimonies. He told me another retreat was coming up in the next month, and that if I was interested in going, he would sponsor me. I quickly agreed. I was hungry for what these people had spoken of.
A Bad Move
I moved into an apartment within a couple of days after the rape. It was summer now. I was 17 years old and carried two jobs. It didn’t take long for bad luck to punch me in the gut again. This time the air conditioning in my apartment building went out, and when I say “out,” I don’t mean down. According to the landlord, the entire system was shot and needed to be replaced. It was June, in Arizona, and the average daily temperature was well into the triple digits.
Going to work was one of the ways I acquired relief from the unbearable summer heat. There in the cool air of the mall my torments seemed to melt away. One afternoon, after whining about my misfortune to my boss, he graciously offered me the solace of his living room couch. He explained that his apartment was just up the road and that it would be no problem if I wanted to crash there while my air was being fixed. Normally red flags would have been going off like crazy in my mind, but considering my alternative at this point was to sleep out on an open patio with my neighbors, as I had done the previous night, I gave in and accepted his gracious offer.
Soon after arriving at my boss’s abode, a bizarre illness leaped upon me and turned my world black. I had such a high fever over the next few weeks that I had difficulty maintaining consciousness. The few flashes of sanity I had during my illness were pierced with pain and torture. It took weeks for me to recuperate from this anomalous infirmity, only to find myself with a new ailment: an unbearable state of constant nausea. Flashes of torment came with the improvement in my state of consciousness over time. Unfortunately, with my ever increasing clarity came the reality that my condition called for me to run to the store for a pregnancy test.
Huddled on the icy floor of the bathroom, staring at a positive pregnancy test, I laid broken, sick, and terrified. What had I gotten myself into, and how was I going to get out? I was startled back to reality by the banging of my boss’s fist on the bathroom door. I pulled my aching body up from the cold, hard floor as I tried to muster up the courage to face my betrayer. Once past the security of the bathroom walls, I was grabbed with such force a sleeping giant within me awoke. Now I was aware, and now I could fight. I spread my limbs across the length of the tiny hallway space, clinging to the walls for strength. Harder and harder he pushed in an effort to get my broken body into the bedroom. Harder and harder I pushed against the walls as the fear left and anger arose inside of me like a flood. Realizing his efforts were futile, in frustration he finally gave up. I dashed back into the refuge of the bathroom and locked myself in.
There I sat on the bathroom floor shaking from the inside out in a flood of emotion and adrenaline, watching as my stomach slowly revealed bruises from the struggle. This was the first time I thought about the child growing inside of me. I remember worrying for his safety as I watched my black and blue stomach rise and fall with each breathe of air. Every emotion in me at this moment felt jumbled like a ball of string, tangled and interwoven.
It was there on the bathroom floor that I devised my plan of escape. Once my attacker left the apartment, I emerged like a wounded animal from the bathroom. I quickly called a friend to come and pick me up, but found myself unpleasantly surprised at the outcome. Within the hour, standing at the front door to rescue me, was my father.
Having already been disowned and kicked out by my father, he was not my first choice of heroes. However, his guilt-ridden face seemed to be pleading for forgiveness as he quickly and quietly grabbed the bags I had packed, so in reluctance I followed. Back I went to the home I hated, back to a family with conditional acceptance. Why he came for me I do not know. Was it out of guilt? Or was it from some unfounded feeling of obligation? All I know is once again I felt trapped.
Going to work was one of the ways I acquired relief from the unbearable summer heat. There in the cool air of the mall my torments seemed to melt away. One afternoon, after whining about my misfortune to my boss, he graciously offered me the solace of his living room couch. He explained that his apartment was just up the road and that it would be no problem if I wanted to crash there while my air was being fixed. Normally red flags would have been going off like crazy in my mind, but considering my alternative at this point was to sleep out on an open patio with my neighbors, as I had done the previous night, I gave in and accepted his gracious offer.
Soon after arriving at my boss’s abode, a bizarre illness leaped upon me and turned my world black. I had such a high fever over the next few weeks that I had difficulty maintaining consciousness. The few flashes of sanity I had during my illness were pierced with pain and torture. It took weeks for me to recuperate from this anomalous infirmity, only to find myself with a new ailment: an unbearable state of constant nausea. Flashes of torment came with the improvement in my state of consciousness over time. Unfortunately, with my ever increasing clarity came the reality that my condition called for me to run to the store for a pregnancy test.
Huddled on the icy floor of the bathroom, staring at a positive pregnancy test, I laid broken, sick, and terrified. What had I gotten myself into, and how was I going to get out? I was startled back to reality by the banging of my boss’s fist on the bathroom door. I pulled my aching body up from the cold, hard floor as I tried to muster up the courage to face my betrayer. Once past the security of the bathroom walls, I was grabbed with such force a sleeping giant within me awoke. Now I was aware, and now I could fight. I spread my limbs across the length of the tiny hallway space, clinging to the walls for strength. Harder and harder he pushed in an effort to get my broken body into the bedroom. Harder and harder I pushed against the walls as the fear left and anger arose inside of me like a flood. Realizing his efforts were futile, in frustration he finally gave up. I dashed back into the refuge of the bathroom and locked myself in.
There I sat on the bathroom floor shaking from the inside out in a flood of emotion and adrenaline, watching as my stomach slowly revealed bruises from the struggle. This was the first time I thought about the child growing inside of me. I remember worrying for his safety as I watched my black and blue stomach rise and fall with each breathe of air. Every emotion in me at this moment felt jumbled like a ball of string, tangled and interwoven.
It was there on the bathroom floor that I devised my plan of escape. Once my attacker left the apartment, I emerged like a wounded animal from the bathroom. I quickly called a friend to come and pick me up, but found myself unpleasantly surprised at the outcome. Within the hour, standing at the front door to rescue me, was my father.
Having already been disowned and kicked out by my father, he was not my first choice of heroes. However, his guilt-ridden face seemed to be pleading for forgiveness as he quickly and quietly grabbed the bags I had packed, so in reluctance I followed. Back I went to the home I hated, back to a family with conditional acceptance. Why he came for me I do not know. Was it out of guilt? Or was it from some unfounded feeling of obligation? All I know is once again I felt trapped.
Naive Equals...
While still living with my friend, we were surprised one afternoon with a visit from a group of teenagers. They were down from my friend’s old high school and decided to stop by for a visit. I hung out with the group and seemed to quickly fit in. Later that day, I was coaxed back to the room I was staying in by one of the boys in the group. He said he wanted me to listen to a tape he had of a new music group. I naively agreed and followed him back.
Not long after the music started, I found myself pinned to the bed with a pillow over my face. The pain I felt over the next moment was as if I was being ripped in half. It only took an instant; I was stripped of my innocence and my dignity. When he was finished with me, he left, leaving me lying there in a pool of blood, shocked, and broken. Shame flooded over me as I gathered my clothes and snuck across the hall into the bathroom to clean up. Upon exiting my room, I could hear the group of teens laughing and carrying on in the other room as if life were a game.
Not long after the music started, I found myself pinned to the bed with a pillow over my face. The pain I felt over the next moment was as if I was being ripped in half. It only took an instant; I was stripped of my innocence and my dignity. When he was finished with me, he left, leaving me lying there in a pool of blood, shocked, and broken. Shame flooded over me as I gathered my clothes and snuck across the hall into the bathroom to clean up. Upon exiting my room, I could hear the group of teens laughing and carrying on in the other room as if life were a game.
On My Own
It was strange that my family taught me about conditional love. If I did what they wanted and believed what they thought I should believe, I was loved. Being of a curious mind, however, did not warrant such conformity. So once I reached high school, I began to question everything. From our political standings to our religious beliefs, nothing was safe from my endless probing and dissecting. This was, in the eyes of my father, a sign of rebellion that must be remedied with tough love.
It didn’t take long for my rebellion to reap its rewards with a strong dose of tough love from my father during my junior year of high school. I was soon disowned and tossed out on my fanny after an intense discussion about a boy I had chosen to date. Homeless, I soon found refuge at a school friend’s house where her parents were gracious enough to let me stay with them for a spell.
Over the next few months, I kept to my routine of attending school, working part-time, and hanging out with friends. Up to this point in my life, I had been a very good little girl, despite the contrary beliefs of my parents. I had decent grades; I never smoked, did drugs, or drank. I was still a virgin and attended church regularly. Good little girl or not, I found myself to be the black sheep in the family. I had grown a tough skin for survival over the years, but I was not prepared for what came next in my life.
It didn’t take long for my rebellion to reap its rewards with a strong dose of tough love from my father during my junior year of high school. I was soon disowned and tossed out on my fanny after an intense discussion about a boy I had chosen to date. Homeless, I soon found refuge at a school friend’s house where her parents were gracious enough to let me stay with them for a spell.
Over the next few months, I kept to my routine of attending school, working part-time, and hanging out with friends. Up to this point in my life, I had been a very good little girl, despite the contrary beliefs of my parents. I had decent grades; I never smoked, did drugs, or drank. I was still a virgin and attended church regularly. Good little girl or not, I found myself to be the black sheep in the family. I had grown a tough skin for survival over the years, but I was not prepared for what came next in my life.
A Broken Mother
Father time drug his feet during my adolecent years of schooling as my home life turned into my own personal house of torment. I had never gotten along with my mother, but a once strained relationship soon became an unbearable pit of despair. To ask my mother to look at me at times was as if you were asking her to gouge out her own eyes. The way she felt about me flowed out daily through her words of disgust and with each sting of the belt across the back of my legs.
A temporary reprieve from my mother’s relentless abuse came in the unexpected form of a car accident. It felt wrong to be grateful for another’s misfortune, but the short lived break I received was much needed. After the car accident, most of my mother’s time over the next year was spent behind closed doors nursing migraine headaches in a room blanketed with darkness and silence. Her emergence from solitude was rare and usually was followed by a command for a massage to ease her searing pain.
My mother’s migraines persisted for years, interwoven with emotional crashes and outbursts. From middle school on was like living with Dr. Jeckel while Mr. Hyde peeked around every corner. I found avoidance to be the best defense against triggering Hyde’s return, so in retreat I would bury my head in books. Needless to say, over the years I have had many wonderful adventures with Tom Sawyer, The Hardy Boys, and Sherlock Holmes.
A temporary reprieve from my mother’s relentless abuse came in the unexpected form of a car accident. It felt wrong to be grateful for another’s misfortune, but the short lived break I received was much needed. After the car accident, most of my mother’s time over the next year was spent behind closed doors nursing migraine headaches in a room blanketed with darkness and silence. Her emergence from solitude was rare and usually was followed by a command for a massage to ease her searing pain.
My mother’s migraines persisted for years, interwoven with emotional crashes and outbursts. From middle school on was like living with Dr. Jeckel while Mr. Hyde peeked around every corner. I found avoidance to be the best defense against triggering Hyde’s return, so in retreat I would bury my head in books. Needless to say, over the years I have had many wonderful adventures with Tom Sawyer, The Hardy Boys, and Sherlock Holmes.
The Beginning...
Instinctively, when I have to type up an autobiography I fill it with a sugar-coated list of facts and figures, leaving out of course, the harsh reality of my past. This time, in a desire to dig deeper and possibly help heal a few still open wounds, I have chosen to thrust upon you the reality that is me.
I will keep the foundation of my childhood short. My parents spawned me while they were yet children themselves. My mother was a mear seventeen year of age and my father twenty-one. I come from a background of ill educated people. My mother never finished high school, and in the five years it took for my father to finish, he still remained illiterate. My mothers’ teen years were spent dabbling in drugs and sex, while my fathers’ were spent in a drunken haze.
I am the eldest of two children, by a span of six years. While in her early twenties, my mother had to undergo a partial hysterectomy for medical reasons. This unfortunate event left her without a uterus. However, she still somehow managed to conceived my brother, to the disbelief of her doctor. The entire pregnancy wasn’t without complications though. My brother was born a month premature and jaundiced. He was a medical miracle, and the stigma of being special stuck to him like glue. Though early for the party and yellow, from birth on my parents believed my brother was “called of God” and that he was going to be something special. Their favoritism for him was clearly shown and grew stronger with each passing year.
I will keep the foundation of my childhood short. My parents spawned me while they were yet children themselves. My mother was a mear seventeen year of age and my father twenty-one. I come from a background of ill educated people. My mother never finished high school, and in the five years it took for my father to finish, he still remained illiterate. My mothers’ teen years were spent dabbling in drugs and sex, while my fathers’ were spent in a drunken haze.
I am the eldest of two children, by a span of six years. While in her early twenties, my mother had to undergo a partial hysterectomy for medical reasons. This unfortunate event left her without a uterus. However, she still somehow managed to conceived my brother, to the disbelief of her doctor. The entire pregnancy wasn’t without complications though. My brother was born a month premature and jaundiced. He was a medical miracle, and the stigma of being special stuck to him like glue. Though early for the party and yellow, from birth on my parents believed my brother was “called of God” and that he was going to be something special. Their favoritism for him was clearly shown and grew stronger with each passing year.
Introduction
Welcome to my blog. I am doing this for purely selfish reasons. My life has always been full of drama. In life, I have taken many roads to get where I am today, some of them good and some of them bad. Yet each impacted me in some way forming me into the woman I am today. In an effort to help myself heal and make sense of it all, I have decided to write it all down. I have always heard that time heals all wounds, but for some reason I haven’t found this very true in my own life. My heart still aches with pain and disappointment, and I still feel many of the wounds I’ve accumulated along the roads of life. I decided to post this as a blog so if in some way my thoughts, feeling, or experiences can help another, so be it.
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