(Chapter Two--view point from age fourteen)
One thing I know for sure, when a child comes forth with a story to tell about being abused: Believe them!
In my mind, God had failed me. I started to doubt that He had ever been there at all. Maybe He didn't even exist. So I left him, my faith, the church, and all the beliefs that went along with Him. After all, what had He done for me while I was faithfully on my knees praying, serving and spreading His word at eleven years old? I was mad. I was hurt, and I wanted revenge against all of them. I realized later that He at least gave me the courage to speak up, but that didn't stop me from turning my back on Him then.
I was left with a deficient sense of self and belonging. It would become noticeable in my relationships with men and how I leaped from one to another carrying no remorse until I had children whom I put in the middle of it all. I would be on an endless search for love from men who didn't know how to love or how to handle my insubordination. Always feeling for the underdog, or souls I thought needed saving; I tried to give the love I so desperately needed myself. The love I had in front of me all along, always carrying it with me but never letting it carry me. I was very juvenile but mature enough to handle most situations I got myself into, and there would be many. I was determined to get my fill of anything and everything I could get my hands on to dull the pain, shame and embarrassment.
Abandoned by God and my mother, along with the damage of being molested, I would begin to justify my trauma through drugs and alcohol. My poor grandparents didn't know what they were in for. I had a new found freedom and it was a bit overwhelming. I took off like a spooked whitetail deer, trampling on anything in my path. The broken, the weak, the strong, and the healthy; I gave no consideration to any of it. God owed me an explanation and my path of destruction would go on until I got one.
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