Forward: I really didn't want to write this. I was up at 1 A.M. and my fingers were interested in typing something true and real to share. My spirit was heavy and I really thought that I was just going to write this and avoid publishing it. I prayed about it and tried to go on about my way but God kept throwing it up in my face. Confirmation after confirmation that I shouldn't be afraid to tell my story because truly its not mine. It's just something that I've been through, not for my sake, but surely to show just how great God is.
As you read this 6 part series (yes, SIX!) do more than judge me. Do more than assume that this is still the person I am today. Do more than criticize me and condemn me in the comments section. Look at how I was and see the glory in God's story. Look past the words on the screen and come to understand that no matter how bad your past is or what you have done that God still forgives.
You don't have to get right before throwing yourself at His feet. Bring all your mess, come as you are, give your life to Him and watch Him work. That is truly the essence of this story. My testimony. Pray for me. Like I said, I didn't want to tell this but I feel compelled to share it. For that one heart that may need to hear this, I'm praying for you as I share.
To read Part 1, click here.
We last left off where I gave you what you probably considered TMI but I don't care. I'm telling my story anyway because regardless of whether or not I or anyone else likes it, somebody needs to hear it.
My innocence. We talked about that. Now let's keep moving from there.
|me at 13 years old...I didn't feel or act like a cheereleader|
This is where most of my mess begins. I had daddy issues and I grew up looking for that missing part of me in the wrong ways. I wanted approval by man. Any man. If not my daddy (which he did approve of me and loved me very much, I'm just saying I had issues with not having a man in the house raising me) then maybe one of these boys around here would. Such a dumb thought process.
I went through boys like a kid goes through a pack of skittles. Throughout school I was well known for who I was boo'ed up with at the time. I felt my identity was totally dependent upon whether or not I had a boyfriend.
Every school year. There had to be someone because if there wasn't I felt unworthy. I never thought I was one of the pretty girls. I seriously thought that boys only like me because I had a nice rack on my chest (something I'd been cursed with in the second grade). Like seriously, that's how I evaluated my self worth.
Forget the fact that I was a smart girl. I made great grades, I actually wouldn't settle for less because that was one thing about me that made my granny and mama proud. However that fact alone didn't totally make me feel special.
I always thought there had to be more. I didn't grow up with a lot of friends. I had (still have) a best friend that lived beside me from the very tender age of three. We were thick as thieves. She was white. I was black (of course you know this but I thought I'd enlighten you, lol).
It didn't matter to me the color of our skin but we were both the brunt of playground jokes. We were Salt and Pepper, Oreo Cookie, Black and White trailer trash girls that hung out with each other. We didn't care what they said though, she was my sister. We stuck up for each other, fought for each other, and stood by each other.
And of course with most childhood friends you are influenced by the "other" friends that occasionally come in and out of the seasons in your life. We stayed pretty close throughout high school but hung in different circles. My circle consisted of one and boy did the dirt start happening then.
I began high school and that's when I learned about depression. That's when I learned that many family members thought I was crazy. That's when I realized that many of my "friends" weren't my friends. That's when I began playing with fire and with life.
Again, I'll give you time to digest. Part 3 to come...
To read Part 3, click here.
To read Part 4, click here.
To read Part 5, click here.