My childhood has haunted me for years. I’ve done all I could to outrun it and to keep it from showing back up, but my efforts have never been good enough.
I grew up a troubled child – drenched in shame and in guilt.
Everything was my fault, and I knew it.
I carried the blame for my parents divorce, the blame for my father’s stress, the dysfunction of my family, and the financial setbacks. I was the reason for everything.
To this day, I still have vivid nightmares of what growing up was like.
I had a dresser in my room that was strategically placed in front of my closet so that I couldn’t access the closet. Every drawer on the dresser, locked; and the bunk-bed in the room had no mattress, pillow, or blanket. A piece of plywood was the only thing that separated those metal bars from my ribs.
My two best friends were a little plastic giraffe and lion that I spent the majority of everyday with. They had the best personalities. They were never mean or mad at me. They had no need to be jealous, because they received all of my attention. There were no bigger or better toys coming that would kick them to the curb. I loved them.
I can remember a very specific time when I was locked in my room, just sitting on the carpet. I sat there for hours, saying words with my eyes closed, but not really believing that anybody was actually listening to me. I wasn’t worth being listened to. I had no hope in my words, or in the outcome. It just felt like the right thing to do.
I had no previous knowledge of Christ. I was never taught to pray. I was never taught to love.
