Those High School Days

Note: Read previous entries for an idea of where I've come from up to this point in my story.

High school. I loved it and hated it. High school was so full of pressures to be somebody that other people would like. This pressure was both self-inflicted and applied by others. I wanted to be somebody that people would like, particularly one certain individual, whom I will call Peter. Peter was the guy to like. He was funny, kind, he had blue eyes, he was talented, and he loved God. He had an endearing personality. He was easily likable. And like him I did. In fact, I obsessed over him at times. It was an unbalanced, unhealthy attraction and obsession. I grew so focused on this one person that I lost sight of the fact that I was surrounded by other people. I wanted to be where Peter was. I wanted to do what Peter was doing. I wanted to talk with Peter, Peter, Peter. The only problem? I never knew what to say. I was scared to death of opening my mouth and saying something stupid. I was so intent on being somebody that people would like, that I didn't stop to be myself. Below are two journal entries, written one right after the other.

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Written on April 4th, 2003

I wonder who the lucky lady will be who walks down the aisle towards the person I care so much for. Whoever she is, she better be grateful.

Written on April 8th, 2003

You'll find at least a few more entries like the latter. I don't want to sound judgmental. I just care for him so, and I want to be a part of his life. But I also want him to be happy. When I see him talking to Brittany and Lorraine, I feel jealousy and loneliness. I fight with these emotions, knowing that jealousy is wrong, and God wants me to find my joy in Him. It's almost like two separate personalities, like Smeagol and Gollum. But I will fight to do what's right, because I know that he would want me to, and God wants me to, too. So fight I must, fight I will; it will be hard, but I'll press on still.

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Jealousy. Loneliness. Two very familiar sentiments in my high school days. I so wanted to be the one Peter wanted to talk to all the time. And I wanted to be included in the foursome that Peter, Brittany, Lorraine, and David were a part of. I wanted to spend time with just Brittany, but Lorraine was a higher priority. I wanted to feel wanted, included, and liked. And because I often was not included in the foursome, or even on an individual level with these popular friends, I felt unwanted and left out. And so, I felt sorry for myself. I would be a part of the larger youth group, and I would go out to eat and hang out with everyone, but I would sit in the big booth at Burger King and feel sorry for myself, surrounded by a group of laughing, talking teens. I allowed myself to believe that no one liked me, no one wanted to talk to me, and no one wanted to be with me. It was a lie, of course, a clever lie weaved by Satan. But I believed it. And coupled with this lie was the fear that if my friends knew about my molestation, which I believed to be my fault and my sin alone, they would reject me completely and think poorly of me.

And so began a vicious cycle of feeling rejected by those I most wanted to be with, feeling alone and afraid, feeling shame over what "I had done." And out of that grew bitterness. Because I felt rejected by Brittany, Lorraine, Peter, and David, I grew bitter towards them because of the pain they caused me. They did not intend to hurt me. They did not even realize what their actions were creating within me.

Because I tried to be someone that people would like, I was not myself. I did not even know myself, or understand myself. And I believed that who I was was someone unloved, disliked by those around me. The truth of the matter was, I was afraid, believing lies, blind to the truth, ashamed of what had happened to me, what I had done. And where was God in all of this? I was not completely ignoring Him during this time, but I was not surrendering to Him, either. My focus was on myself, not on God.

Bitterness builds a wall up around your heart that is used to defend against pain. But what it really is is a choking weed that sucks joy and life out of you. As I look back on those high school days, I realize that I probably made myself into the kind of person that people really do not like being around. In trying to make myself likable, I made myself into something unpleasant. Not on purpose, of course. It was not my intent to become bitter and to throw pity parties for myself. But that is what happened.

And yet, God is gracious. I reached my senior year of high school and duel enrolled at Valencia Community College. I told God that I was stepping out of my comfort zone in going to college classes as a high school student, but I would trust Him to see me through. I approached it with an attitude of putting forth my best effort and stepping out in boldness. I took a speech class my first semester at Valencia, and I found myself enjoying the other people in the class. I discovered that people were not something to fear. They are, after all, just people. I also discovered that I did not have to try to be liked in order to be liked. I started to act out of who I really was, and in doing so I realized a part of myself that I had kept locked away for so long. God was beginning to break the bonds that held me captive year after year. He was preparing me for the big breakthrough, the one that would open my eyes to the lies and free me to receive the healing and love He pours out upon His children.

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Claiming My Own Faith

Written 19 August, 2007

The torment of my tired mind
threatens to twist, bend, and wind
to the point of breaking.
I throw myself at Your feet,
admitting defeat,
ready to empty my heart and mind,
leaving them open for You to fill.

God grant me peace in this storm;
God fill my life with Your love.
God let me not go astray;
may I glorify You in every way.

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My childhood saw many changes. I saw my best friend, Susan, move away, and my next best friend, Lacey, move to a different church. I saw the pastor of the Family Church leave and a new pastor come. I saw many members of the church leave because they did not like the new pastor, or they liked the old one better. I saw many leave because they did not like the style of music. I never knew where most of them went. I saw some new people come, and I made some new friends. School changed and became more challenging. My brothers became rebellious towards my parents. My parents struggled to deal with them in a loving way. My parents struggled to show each other love. My sisters and I had more arguments and fewer late-night talks. I started having crushes on the guys on my brothers' basketball teams.

I began to learn that God was more than a bunch of cool stories about miracles and interesting people. Growing up with Christian parents, a part of a church, and being home schooled, I heard Sunday school lessons and sermons and songs that all spoke of the message that God was beginning to drive home. I believed it all. I believed that God created everything, and that I was a sinner in need of saving, and Jesus, the Son of God, died for me and rose again so that I could spend eternity in heaven. There was not a doubt in my mind that it was all the truth. But there came a point of realization that this Christianity thing was about more than just believing in God. It was about having a relationship with God. As I grew older, I began to understand this.

High school came around, and I was part of the youth group at the Family Church. Oh the drama! So-and-so-likes-him, and so-and-so-likes her. Who got invited to the pool party at Jimmy's house? Where were we going out to eat after youth group on Wednesday night? Sometimes I am amazed that God did not get completely lost in the shuffle of all the high school drama. I am even more amazed that He chose that time to secure a firm decision from me as to what I would be doing with the rest of my life.

I went to a youth conference called Life 2001. I was fifteen years old, old enough to know what was going on and what I was doing. It was at that conference that I made a clear declaration that what I believed, what I professed, was fully from my own faith, not from the faith of my parents or my friends or my youth group leaders. I decided that the rest of my life would be used to serve God in whatever way He called me to serve. In my heart, I knew that I served an almighty God, a holy God, a righteous, all-powerful God. I was blown away by the realization of Who God is: the I Am.

Up to that point, I had believed, but I had been walking on my parents feet, so-to-speak, in following their faith. I had not stood on my own in my own heart and mind. Once I had taken that first step of walking on my own, God began to grow me. The growth would start slowly at first. But it would quickly pick up speed later on. First I would have to be broken, so that my restoration could begin.

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The House of Black and Grey

Note: Read "Small Beginnings" for a glimpse of my early childhood.

Written 14 February, 2006

The place I've come from, this place I'm in and always will be at, gnaws at my heart, my mind, my flesh. It is a darkness that cannot be understood by those who have never been in that dark corner, that house of black and grey memories. They are black and grey because we've either blocked them out, or the time between now and then has watered and blurred the images. This is a house of pain, of scars, of deep secrets hiding in the shadows. We live together in this house but we often do not know it. We bind our secrets to the wall erected in front of our hearts; we use them as our defense. They are secrets. They are hidden. No one else can see them. Not even those who hold the same secrets. We live, eat, breathe, sleep in this house. We work and go to school in the fashion of the rest of the world. That ignorant crowd. They are blessed in their ignorance of this house. The door to this house opens easily for those coming in. Those who enter can never leave. The door is barred. There are no alternate escapes.

"The truth will set you free." The truth has set me free from the guilt and shame that for so long weighed upon my shoulders. It has given me strength to live life with joy. I will not say that the Truth does not have the power to completely destroy this house, but the day for that has not yet come. Someday all will be made new. Someday this house will no longer exist. But not yet. Until that day, we are hiding wanderers. We cry in our hearts more than the tears it would require to fill the oceans. Black and grey. Others remember in color their young years. All of them. There is a very large grey blur from the ages of seven to eight, perhaps nine, that time has diluted and the heart has eluded. In that same age range, my memories are black. Only patches remain, thank God. I have blocked out most of the memories, but one will always remain: it happened. I can't remember to tell you if it happened against my will. Guilt filled memories are not reliable sources of truth. The story that I always told myself was that I started it. It was my choice. My fault. My stupidity. Me. It was all me. Or was it? In this house, does anyone really know? Am I to be forever haunted by the question: could I have prevented my molestation?

There it comes out. The name of this dark and lonely secret. This corner of pain and shadows. This house that one can enter, but never leave. This house of secrets that thousands, perhaps millions carry, yet none care to share. Thus, they go on in loneliness. Most go on in shame. We are living in this house. And every day, more children enter. It is a dark and lonely place. Having more company here won't help. Don't send them our way.

Part of me is gone. Those who live in this house have a part of them missing too. God help us. God save us. Beware.

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As the journal entry above reveals, a tragic event occured in my early childhood. I was met with the misfortune of molestation. I only remember glimpses of what went on, and it is neither necessary nor appropriate for me to go into detail of what I experienced. But as the entry above also reveals, it was a dark mark upon my childhood, something that was still haunting me thirteen years later. I do remember an immense feeling of guilt, however. I blamed myself for what was in fact a great wrong done against me. As a child I did not understand, nor was it explained to me what had gone on or what the implications of it were. I was left to deal with it on my own. My parents knew, of course. I had confessed the whole thing to them one night after a bath had failed to cleanse me from the dirty feeling I had within my heart. But after they confronted the person who wronged me, and made him apologize to me, the subject was like a mist blown away by the winds of time. We simply did not talk about it.

I am certain that my parents were at a loss for how to handle the situation. Who expects that their child is going to be molested, or that something equally traumatizing will happen to them? Who knows how to handle such a thing, after the unthinkable has happened? It was a tragic addition to my already tear-jerking tale. And tears became my nighttime companion as I cried myself to sleep, feeling the weight of guilt and shame over what I had done. I was not angry at God. I was afraid of Him. I was afraid that He would never forgive me. And so I would cry, and cry, and cry, and beg for Him to forgive me, until I would lose myself in my tear-stained pillow and fall asleep.

It was a burden that no child should have to bear, and yet, I bore it alone. It was such a lonely existence, for no one could comfort me. They could not comfort me because they were either ignorant of my sad state, they were a party to it, or they did not ever bring themselves to talk about it. And I did not feel the freedom or the boldness to speak of it to anyone who knew of it, let alone any who had no knowledge of what I had gone through. I was living in the world with the rest of my family and my friends, but I was part of another world of which they had no part, for they did not understand or know of it. I was living in the house of black and grey memories, and I could look out at the colorful world through the distorted glass of guilt and fear, where everyone else seemed to live such happy lives. Oh to be free from my prison! Oh to reclaim the color and life! But how?

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Small Beginnings

I was born in California, the state of tall palm trees and dusty mountains, smog-filled air and turquoise ocean water, in the year 1986. What I remember of my home there is limited, but our backyard was extensive, our dining room had hardwood flooring, and my bedroom had dreamy white curtains in the windows. It was a two-story house, the second floor having been converted from an attic to a living space by my father. My best friend was a boy, I loved wearing dresses, and I knew that a $20 bill was worth more than the card it came in on my first birthday.

My two older brothers were typical boys. They loved legos, the tree house built in our backyard, and getting into as much mischief as possible without getting into trouble. They could be a bit overbearing at times. At birthdays and Christmas my parents sounded like broken records: "Let Katie open her own presents." I was a quiet, shy child. I loved to play with baby dolls and Fisher-Price Little People. Sometimes my brothers would play with me. Other times my mom would sit on the living floor with me and join me in the adventures of the Little People. Many times, I played by myself.

The only memories I have of girl friends in California are few and unpleasant. There was one particular girl that I played with occasionally. She told me the names of certain body parts that I found most inappropriate at my young age. I was invited to one of her birthday parties, an "Under the Sea" themed party inspired by "The Little Mermaid." We were all to wear costumes. I dressed in my pink leotard with the fluffy tutu around the middle. I was supposed to be a sea urchin. Duh. Everybody knows sea urchins resemble pink tutus. But apparently not 4 to 7 year old girls. I was the laughing stock of the party. I remember being distinctly relieved the last time I left her house before moving away. I was coming home from one last visit, and the moving truck was in front of our white, clapboard siding house. I was sad about leaving my best friend, the boy. I was not sad about leaving the girls who laughed at me behind.

At the tender age of 5, I began a new life in a new state. Florida also had palm trees, albeit stubby, fat ones, and no mountains. The ocean water was brown and murky on the Atlantic coast, and I didn't visit the Gulf coast. I settled in with my two older brothers, a younger sister who was two at the time of the move, and my parents, who did their best to handle the four of us as they searched for a house. We finally moved into a five bedroom, two bathroom house. One bedroom was used as my father's study. My brothers shared a room, and my sister and I shared a room. The fourth bedroom was reserved for the little bundle of joy that would be joining us in July of 1992.

We had joined a church by the time I was six. It was a good-sized church, with a couple hundred people attending the service most Sundays. I'll call it the Family Church, for so it was. It was there that I made new friends. My new best friend was a girl this time. I'll call her Susan. We visited each other's houses and spent the night and made silly videos. We often played together with another girl, whom I'll call Lacey. The three of us got along well, most of the time. But there were moments when jealousies would arise because Susan and I were so close, and Lacey was often the third wheel. And when I would go to Lacey's house, Susan sometimes got jealous. A trio presents challenges that a duo never comes upon. I learned this early on, and found it to be true later on in life when I became the third wheel.

And so I was established in a modest home, with a healthy church and new friends. These were small beginnings, really, for soon my life would take a turn that would change everything, plunging the colorful freedom of childhood into a darkened vortex of twisted and haunting memories.

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Welcome to My Blog

Where does one begin? Am I to write something clever, or shocking, or intriguing, merely to catch your attention? Perhaps I could weave some phrases together that spark your interest, but to do so would be a waste of my time as well as yours. So I will simply begin with all that I have to work with: who I am and what my story is. I will not attempt to coerce you into reading this. If your interest is genuine, or if you have nothing better to do, then I hope you will enjoy and learn from what I share here.

The purpose of this blog is to share my story, my thoughts, and my muses. The names I use will not be in accordance with real life, but what I share will all be true. And in all truthfulness, my story is only a small part of a larger story. Everyone is part of this great novel called Life, in the magnificent series of Eternity. My part is only a sentence or two in one paragraph of one chapter of one book in that series. So, welcome to my blog. Welcome to my story. Welcome to my life.

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