My story

I would title this "my testimony", but I've heard that testimonies need to be to the point- merely touching on the bad, focusing mainly on the good. Then I've heard that it can be equal amounts of both bad and good. All I know, is that the bad led to good, and therefore the bad needs to be talked about in order for the good to have that much more impact.
Anywho...
This will be my story. We all have them, and there's something beautiful that happens when we tear down the walls we built up, are vulnerable, and lay bare the life we've lived.

Like everyone else's story, my beginning is the same: I was born. I was born into a seemingly normal family- 2 older sisters, an older brother. My dad's a pastor, my mom helped lead worship.
I was born in Indiana. We moved when I was 3, because my dad felt that God was calling him to do ministry in Minnesota. I hated the fact that we were moving. I can remember events in my life as early as when I was 3- I cried for the big blue house in Indiana for forever. Wimp.
For 2 years, when I was 3 and 4 years old, a family friend molested and raped me repeatedly and on a consistent basis. Someone once asked me "What? A 3 year old can be raped? How?" Just trust me, it's more than possible. He was 17, and his mom would babysit my brother and I. My parents felt something was wrong, so they stopped taking us to that person to be babysat and our family drifted apart from theirs. It was later discovered that this man had also molested my brother. I acted out my abuse on other kids; I didn't know it wasn't right nor not normal. It was what I knew to be normal.

Life went on as normal. My family didn't know and I didn't remember, until I was 10. When I was 10, on my abuser's wedding day, I remembered everything he did. Entire scenes from the abuse would play in my mind over and over again, like it was on an endless loop. I told my mom that day. She didn't say much, other than she was going to tell my dad after church the next day. I pleaded with her to not tell my dad because I knew he'd call the cops. I felt like I would get in trouble, that I was to blame, so having the police involved was something out of the question in my mind. My dad did call the cops. A few days later, a female detective came over and asked me a bunch of questions about what transpired. More cops came to collect evidence that had been left behind. Within the next week, my dad called the man and the police recorded it. My dad got the guy to confess to 2 incidences. Evidence spoke other than that. Soon, I'd have to tape a testimony that would be played in court. My abuser was sentenced to a year in jail. He got more time in jail for violating parole by robbing a gas station, than he did for implementing an anguish on me that would last for a long time.

After the abuse had been unveiled, my mom started acting really differently.

Now, as a side note, I hate implementing family members, for I always fear my friends or those who know them will look at them differently and act differently towards them. Then I remember- these things are important for me to get out and talk about. There's, sadly, nothing extraordinary about my family situations than what you see in society today. And my family members each have their own battles I know they face. All I can do is pray that one day, got will pierce their hearts like he did mine.
Now back to it.

I remember one night my mom was just catatonic. She sat there and stared off, not saying a word, not answering any questions I had on why she wasn't talking. I remember freaking out, thinking something was medically wrong. When in all actuality, I think something in my mom had snapped. She would eventually say she was going to run away; this happened quite often. She would say that, then go away for hours, none of us sure where she went. My mom would tell me that my abuse was my fault. She would call me worthless, fat, ugly, etc. This escalated when she started using her hands to "teach me a lesson".  When my brother was 15 he was diagnosed with a bunch of different mental disorders/disabilities. He would soon become physically, verbally and sexually abusive towards me. Growing up, all I knew was abuse. I also knew poverty quite well. My dad (who is an amazing father, might I add. He didn't know a lot of these things were going on, and when he did he would do everything in his power to stop it) Anyways, my dad was forced to resign by the church he pastored at here in Rochester. He had started a Saturday night service, and during that service many people with addictions, adulterers, and homosexuals would come. The elders said my dad was being too much like Jesus by allowing these people to come in; they only wanted straight-laced people who "had it together." After the forced resignation, my family was left with no money. An unpaid pastor (my dad now runs a ministry for addicts) and a chiropractic assistant's salaries don't make up much money. My family's had to declare bankruptcy twice, have a ton of mortgages, almost have had our house foreclosed on us (and we've been demo-ing stuff in case it gets foreclosed on), and we've had to swallow our pride and go to local food banks. We still have to do that. We're not poor by any means, compared to the rest of the world. It still takes its toll.
I would run away multiple times, sleep in parks, or live with other families in town for small periods of time until they couldn't take me anymore. I was a vagabond for a year, living in Wisconsin, Chicago, Canada, and other cities in Minnesota.

I was 11 when I first thought about suicide. The toll that the revelation of abuse had played on my family, mixed with the feelings and thoughts that it was all my fault, led to me thinking life would be better for everyone if I was just gone. I started by holding knives to my chest, just thinking, "what if?" This soon turned into actual attempts; between the ages of 11 and 17, I would try to take my life 8 separate times, each obviously unsuccessful. When the last attempt failed, I figured I was supposed to be alive for a reason, so I started to try different things to numb the pain, rather than to obliterate it all together. I started cutting; it turned into a vicious addiction that when I wanted to stop, I couldn't. I stopped one night after I had gotten home from a party. I was so upset with myself for my behaviour that night, so I cut. I cut so deep that I was bleeding a lot. After some time, I just wouldn't stop bleeding. It may sound melodramatic, but I really thought that I was going to die. I lay there, on the bathroom floor, and cried out to God, telling Him that if He let me live, I'd live for Him. I passed out from the loss of blood and woke up a while later, covered in my own blood. I didn't live for God after that; not for quite some time, at least. Eleven was also the age that I doubted God's existence. I grew up hearing about how much God loves us, God does this and that and this and...just things I didn't see nor feel. I thought, "If God loved me, he wouldn't have allowed this to happen to me, right?" By the time I was 12, I stopped believing all together. I would still go to church and maintain this outward appearance of belief, but in my heart God was just something created in peoples minds to help them feel better.
I had gone to multiple therapists, counselors, psychologists and psychiatrists. I was diagnosed with depression, social anxiety disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, post traumatic stress disorder and OCD. I was put on a bunch of different depression meds and anxiety meds. My anxiety got to the point where I couldn't be left alone for over 5 minutes or I'd have a panic attack. Thanks to the Lord, I'm no longer diagnosed with any of these mental illnesses.

Besides cutting, I had a few other addictions. It started with prescription pills, then weed, then coke and x. I would also drink pretty heavily. The drugs weren't a big of a problem for me as the drinking. I would have my times where I would clean up my act, like missions trips with my youth group.
But if my act wasn't be 'cleaned up', I would be drinking pretty much every day. I would go out to party at 7, get home at 8 the next morning, sleep until 4pm, then repeat the whole cycle. I didn't limit my drinking at parties, either. I'd go to bars that notorious for not checking IDs, or sneak in the exits or whatever way I could. I've been caught and had to run from undercover cops. That was a trip haha. Being under the influence, I didn't care about anything. I would hook up with people, irregardless of gender. When I say "hook up" (since I know people have different definitions of it), I mean make out, but a little more intense. Kind of half-way between 2nd and 3rd, if you're a base person. (I felt extremely gross typing that haha). Also to be noted- I've never had a thing for girls; it would just come out while under the influence. Even though I've never had consensual sex, the scars from hooking up with a person are still there and can hurt. The worst was when I went to visit my best friend at the time, who had moved back to Canada. I went to visit her for a while. The second night I was there, we got pretty sloppy drunk and hooked up. When realizing everything that happened the next day, she kicked me out. I was on the streets of Ottawa, a huge city, by myself. I just chilled wherever and lived until I was able to come back home. When I was under the influence, I would beat people to bloody pulps. If anyone said anything about me, my friends or my family, I would take them down. Even sober, I'd do that- I learned that I had extreme amounts of anger, and I learned that quickly.
When I finally stopped the drugs is when some messed up stuff with my friends happened at a party. I drank all the way up until I went to Rockford Master's Commission- even then, I got in trouble for drinking with a few other first years and by the grace of God didn't get kicked out but got a second chance.

When I was 16, I went to my first youth group ever. I only went because my brother had gone and saw my best friend from middle school there. She told my brother I should come. So I did- just to see her. Something inside of me stirred that night, and I told her everything about my life that I had kept secret. She got the youth pastor's girlfriend (now his wife) to come over and pray for me. I was like- uh, ok. But when this woman prayed, she knew everything that I had been through, without me ever saying anything. I was intrigued. I came back the next week and asked her to do it again. A bunch of stuff had happened and I wanted to see if she knew what it was once again. And she did. I kept going back and each time, God would chip away at my heart. Eventually it was time for their winter retreat. I didn't want to go, but went anyways. During the last night's altar call, I went forward and accept Jesus as my Saviour. As you can tell from what I've written before, I didn't live it out. I struggled with my addictions and didn't even try and hide them. I believed in Jesus, but I kept carrying around the baggage that He wanted to carry. I didn't drop any of it until I went to Rockford Master's Commission.

Last year, when living in Chicago, my friend, Erin, with whom I was staying, decided to have a chat with me about life. We talked for a while and she told me her story, and one of the things she kept talking about was Rockford Master's Commission. It really intrigued me, but I shrugged it off. When I went back home for a short period of time, I couldn't shake the thought of RMC. It kept coming up. I called Erin and told her that, and two weeks later I was back in Chicago, staying with her and checking out RMC for myself. I knew I was supposed to be there. I was looking for change; I was sick of living the way I was.

Last September, I started RMC. I hated it there at first. I was so resistant to change and didn't want to let go of the baggage I was lugging around with me. I had rededicated my life the first night at Memorial Hall (it's this sweet war memorial/museum; we had a service where we wrote letters to God about what we wanted to get out of our 9 months in the program, and then people got saved). But I wanted to leave many a time. I had my bags packed and was ready to book it at one point. I basically wasted my first 3 1/2 months at RMC fighting the change that I knew was inevitable. Then I gave in and let God do His thing. Yes, I had to play a part in it as well, but He really took over me.
I finally accepted God's love and grace for me, and in that I've been able to show others love. God removed a great deal of my insecurity, broke down my walls and let me trust others and Himself, healed me from all the hurts of my past and put back the broken pieces, taught me how to be disciplined, showed me how valuable I am and...the list goes on. For me to sum up what I learned there, what I got to experience, seems somewhat impossible. The best part is knowing that it wasn't the program that changed me, it wasn't me that changed me, nor was it the people around me- all of these things played their parts in my change, but overall, God did it all.
(And if you're wondering what Rockford Master's Commission is, I still don't know how to explain it beyond a 9 month long, hardcore discipleship program).

So, that's pretty much my story. It's not the most cohesive thing ever written, but this is how was easiest for me to express it.

You have a story- go out and share it. It may be something someone needs to hear. To hear that they're not alone in this. To hear that there's hope. Don't be ashamed; we've all lived life, and I think one of the greatest gifts we can give to each other and the world, is indeed, our story.