Part 10 - A New State of Mind

At age nine, I moved with my family to a new town in Iowa about a half hour from my grandparents and other relatives. The new town was one of those "blink and you miss it" places, and it was here my most outstanding memory of abuse was created.

Up until this point I had continued my struggle to suppress the realization that I was abused, but one day as I sat in school, all that changed. A few of my friends and I were sitting and talking during a break in class. They began to discuss their lives at home and how, while they didn't like being spanked, it was quick and only hurt for a little while, and then it was over. Very rarely are kids that open about methods of discipline at home, but on this particular day, for whatever reason, these kids were. I remember deciding the time had come to find out once and for all just how abnormal my home life might be. I asked my classmates if their parents ever hit them anywhere else, and they said, "No, silly, that would be abuse." I bit my lip for a moment, then asked if their parents hit them a lot of times during spankings so that it hurt a lot. They replied once again, "Of course not. That would be abuse too. Does your mom do that?" I just looked at the floor and shook my head.

After school, I decided to stop by a friend's house a few blocks away to collect some payment I'd earned taking care of her dog while her family was gone. My brother, Jeff, at age five, was supposed to walk home with me, and since my friend's house was less than a block out of the way, I asked him to come with me while I got the money. Instead of agreeing with me, Jeff decided he'd rather go home, and no matter how I tried to persuade him, he refused to go with me. Finally, I told him to just wait there while I walked to my friend's house and came right back. I was sure I would only need to enter her front porch to get the money, and thus keep an eye on my brother the whole time. My orders to Jeff issued, I made my way to my friend's house to collect my money. Somehow I must have been distracted, because when I turned around, Jeff had disappeared. I ran all the way home, shaking in fear of what my mom might do if she saw Jeff arrive home without me. Sure enough, he arrived alone, and my mom was mad.

As I entered the house, I was greeted with a fierce hostility by my mom, who accused me of being selfish and putting Jeff's safety at risk just to get a few bucks. The whole time she yelled, my anger began to rise at the realization I had finally given in to earlier in the day - that my mom was indeed abusive. Finally, when she'd worked up enough anger, my mom told me to get to where she was for my punishment. I paused long enough for adrenaline to carry me past any sort of sense, and then I exploded.

"Go ahead, beat me!" I yelled. "Isn't that what you do anyway? I know it is!" My face grew hot as I continued to rage. "Go ahead, Mom! Beat me! Beat me!"

My mom hesitated. She'd never seen this sort of outburst from me, and I'm guessing felt taken aback by my rage. After a few seconds, however, her own face grew red as her temper boiled over.

"So, I beat you, do I?" Her voice quivered with rage. "You don't know anything. You don't even know what a beating is! Get over here!" She started towards me. "I'll show you what it is to be beat."

My mom reached for me and threw me against the wall. She punched me several times in the stomach and elsewhere, then threw me to the ground. She approached me from behind and began to kick me, and after a bit she grabbed onto my arm and began dragging me towards her bedroom and the three steps that led from the living room down to it. I yelled and tried to brake myself against the carpet with my free arm, but the rug burn was too much, and my mom was too strong. I braced my body for the steps, and soon found myself in her bedroom, where she jerked me onto her bed and continued her rage with one of the worst spankings I had received. I screamed and yelled my apologies, but to no avail. My mom stopped only when she ran out of fuel for anger, then dismissed me with the phrase, "Get out of my sight." I did so.

On my way back to my bedroom, I passed Jeff, who had witnessed the entire first part of the beating from his place on a living room rocking chair. Bitterness rose in my heart. I spat out the words, "See what you did?"

Jeff only shrugged and said, "You deserved it."

My heart tore in two.

I was in a new state, and my new state of mind was now in place. Was I abused? Yes. Could I stop or confront that abuse? Never. I knew that much for sure.

Part 9 - A Matter of Hygiene

Matters of hygiene at my childhood houses were usually traumatic and always dreaded. For instance, even at the age of eight my mom still gave me baths, insisting my hair was too thick for me to clean by myself. While she may have been right about my hair, bath time was still a dreaded event for my eight-year-old mind. I felt as though my mom violated my shy and innocent nature, and she often became angry when I didn't do things just right. Being hit on my wet skin, even in private areas, wasn't fun, but there was nothing I could do about it.

Just prior to receiving my journal I got my ears pierced. As a total tomboy, having pierced ears wasn't too terribly important, but it was a sign of growing older, so I didn't mind. However, soon after getting them pierced I realized there was a problem. My ears were always sore, and other symptoms were present that seemed to indicate an allergy to cheaper metals.

Shortly after the above-mentioned symptoms began, during one of my dreaded bathtimes, my mom went to wash behind my ears and found a purple mass the size of a small pea attached to the back of my earlobe. She immediately recognized it as a sign of infection, but rather than taking me to the doctor to have it removed, she simply ripped it off, taking a patch of skin with it. My ear bled for a long time, and I remember grabbing wads of toilet paper and holding them to my ear to catch the blood. My mom was unsympathetic, and told me to stop being such a baby.

Later that same year, I graduated to taking showers with my mom, and a year later, to taking them on my own. Even then my mom maintained control over things such as cutting my fingernails (she'd cut the quick) and towel-drying my hair. But that was all normal, at least for me.

Part 8 - A Diary Of Sorts

At age eight we moved to a new town, still in Missouri. My dad began staying with his mother in Iowa during the week in order to attend a junior college and came home only on weekends. During one of those weekends I received my first diary as a gift from my dad. It was pink, with a Precious Moments character on the cover, and it fascinated me. The very thought of having something private, something personal that was mine and mine alone intrigued me. It was a tempting idea, luring me into its grasp, but it didn't last long.

Soon after receiving the diary I realized it wasn't safe. There was no lock, and even if there had been, I wouldn't have stood up to my mom had she demanded to view my entries. I gave up my longing to write openly and instead began to write what I thought would please my mom. For example, the following is an actual entry dated April 15, 1992:

"Today I had library. It was boring! After that we had computers! I got my name in the Hall Of Fame! Today was exciting!"

However, one night, after years of struggling with the knowledge that my own treatment at home was not normal, I decided to be honest. My mom had gotten upset, and while I don't remember the specific details of what happened, I know it was painful. In anger, I scrawled out an entry to an older self that I hoped would someday read and remember what had happened. However, I so feared my mother's finding my diary that I later went back and erased the entry, replacing it with one more in line with my mom's desires. Still, the deep, angry pencil lines I'd written could not be entirely erased, so parts of the entry are still visible, and tucked neatly away near the binding of my journal are years-old bits of eraser. Here, quoted as best I can make out, is what remains of that night's anger:

"Mom beat me! She doesn't even care the least about me. Never forget them! Never forget the beatings she gave you!"

That night, May 12 of 1993, at the age of eight all of my inner turmoil spilled out onto the 4" x 5" page of my personal journal. Soon, those angry words were erased and covered with a journal entry of a similar nature to the first one I quoted. After all, life was good, my anger forgotten, and the family secret was once more safe.

Part 7 - A Bonding Moment

The same year we got Beauty, which was, of course, also the year I was sexually abused and had four boys chasing after me, my dad and I had an unusual experience. At least, unusual for us. My dad is a nice guy. Soft spoken, tender hearted, and unsure how to connect emotionally with his children, he nevertheless tried his best to be a good father to us. Through all of the abuse my mom aimed at him, he still stuck around, though I'm not entirely sure why. Often, after a hard day's work at whatever job he happened to have at the time, he would come home only to be yelled at, hit, and belittled by his wife and even his children. Sometimes my mom forced us to say bad things to our dad, such as calling him lazy and a jerk, and telling him he never provided for our family. But he tried. And he knew we didn't mean those things. After all, he knew my mom. He married her.

One day while living in our Ozark hills house, I came home from school and made my way down the long driveway, noting that my dad must be gone, since the car wasn't there. Back then, we had two cars. My dad drove one, and my mom the other. My dad's was a tiny Fiesta, but if I remember right, one that was in good condition. On this particular day I entered the house to find my dad sitting silently on the stairs leading from the entryway up to the living area. I could tell by his demeanor something was wrong. I asked where the car was, and I'll never forget his simple reply: "I wrecked it."

In that moment, in the fearful anticipation of my mom's reaction, my dad and I connected in a way that rarely, if ever, happened after that point. I remember looking at him for a split second, then falling into his arms as he held me and we both wept. I don't know how to describe the bond we felt at that moment, but we somehow related to each other. We knew my mom, his wife, would be angry, that she would yell, and that she would most likely begin to hit him again. We knew he hadn't wrecked that car on purpose, but we also knew that wouldn't matter to my mom. In her eyes, he was a failure. We both were. In her eyes, we deserved whatever abuse she decided to dish out upon our already overloaded shoulders. In her eyes, only her views were correct, and only she mattered. In those few moments as my dad held me, we wept, and in so doing we silently acknowledged one another's pain. We acknowledged, albeit wordlessly, the abuse we both knew was happening at home, and we acknowledged that neither of us could talk about it. We wept, we bonded, and then we went on about our lives as if it were all normal. There was nothing else we could do.

Part 6 - A Cat Named Beauty

I was seven years old and had never owned a pet in my life, unless you count the box turtle I kept for one day inside a five gallon bucket, only to wake the next morning to discover it missing. But I wanted one. I'd wanted a pet for as long as I could remember. Then, not too long after moving to our new house in the Ozark hill country, it so happened my grandpa invited me for a drive down our gravel road, "just to see where it went." Actually, the road was paved in front of the house, but soon after turned to gravel and dust. But back to the story. Grandpa and I have always been close, and even though he's my mom's adoptive father, that never got between us. In fact, I was closer to him from the start than any of my other grandpas, both of whom are now dead. My grandpa and I always had a very unique bond, one which was often described by the words, "we're buddies!" But it was more than that. I didn't realize it at the time, but we both were experiencing a once-in-a-lifetime bond of love and similarity to each other. We still have that.

On this particular day, however, I climbed into Grandpa's truck and together we took off for new adventures. We'd gone perhaps a mile or so when we saw an old farmer working in the ditch near his house. Grandpa, being the friendly type, pulled over to talk. The gentleman saw me in the seat, and upon learning I was new to the area asked if I wanted a kitten. Boy, did I! Grandpa just smiled and told the gentleman we'd need to ask my parents first and would be back after a bit to let him know their answer. After a minimal amount of persuading, my parents agreed I could get a kitten, but it had to be an outdoor cat. I'd never been more thrilled in my life than I was at the moment Grandpa and I climbed back in his truck to pick out a cat.

Upon arriving at the farm, we located the farmer and asked him to show us the kittens he'd mentioned. He took us to an old silo and pointed to a bunch of rowdy, feral cats that must have been several months old at the time. After quite a workout, the farmer managed to catch one, but it only scratched and fought to get away. My grandpa just shook his head, but just as he was about to tell the gentleman we didn't want those cats, a beautiful siamese feline came walking our way, calm as could be.

"Is that the mother?" my grandpa asked.

"Yep."

"Could we have her?"

The man hesitated, then smiled. "Sure! You're welcome to her."

I grinned from ear to ear as Grandpa picked up the new cat, my new cat, and put her in an emptied sack for oranges. He was afraid she'd go wild on the way home, but after a bit of scratching, she just lay there, calm as could be.

I'll never forget when we took her inside to show my parents. We opened the bag and let her out, only to discover her fur matched our brown-and-tope colored carpet perfectly. I asked my mom what I should name her, and everyone agreed the only name for this cat was Beauty. Her blue eyes sparkled with a wisdom beyond her species, and she had an air of dignity and love that amazed everyone who saw her. What's more, she didn't seem to mind that I didn't know how to hold her. I remember one picture of me on the steps with my arms under her front legs grasping her loosely as the rest of her body hung straight down. She didn't fight to get loose, she just hung there as if grateful for even that attention. My brother, then age 3, sometimes pulled her tail or accidentally stepped on her toes, but she never bit or scratched at him. She just yelped a bit and went on her way.

Soon after bringing Beauty home, we realized why the gentleman had given her to us. Beauty was pregnant. She went on to have two more litters before we could get her spayed, some of which didn't turn out so well, as she apparently bred with some of her own offspring from down the road. Oh well. We kept a few of her kittens, but through all of the moves that would follow, only Beauty stayed with us. What a cat.

Part 5 - Four Boys, One Principal, And One Very Hot Room

During the time Jack abused me, four of my classmates also showed interest in dating me. I know, I know, "dating" isn't exactly the right word for a couple of 7-year-olds holding hands, but it's what we knew it as being called. These four boys, whom I will call Luke, Bryan, Jeffrey, and Kyle, all had a crush on me. They continually asked me out and even play-fought each other at recess to determine who should have me. I, being the tomboy I was, fought with them.

The boys did their best to impress me with their macho karate moves, and eventually their play-fights were noticed by the staff. The boys and I got in trouble four times for fighting, and while I only participated in the first incident, the school principal assumed I was involved in the other three as well. The boys were paddled, something that was still allowed in public schools back then, and one of the boys generously took my paddling for me. However, nothing could spare us from our sentence of one week of recesses spent copying the dictionary in what we called "the hot room." This was a small room lined with tables and hard plastic chairs. Two windows looked out from the room. One, a large picture window, offered a tempting view of the playground, while the other showed the principal's office. The room's nickname was well earned, since the principal kept the space heater there running full blast even during the hot summer months. I imagine had the state found out what he was doing, this principal would have been in a great heap of trouble. Unfortunately for us, that never happened.

At one point, each of the four boys came up to me privately to ask me who I liked the most. I knew that because of Jack's abuse, I couldn't commit to a relationship with any of the boys, but neither could I tell them about Jack. Thus, each boy who approached me was told in confidence that he was the one I cared for above the others. That way nobody's feelings got hurt. It worked like a charm, at least until the four boys began to boast to each other about my "private" confessions. Needless to say, I found myself in quite a pickle. I ended up telling the boys that I had only told one of them I liked him the most. In my mind, the fact that the boys had broken their agreement to keep my words confidential gave me license to lie further to them. Funny how the thought never occurred to me that I was the one who had lied first.

After my deceitful words, the boys became angry with each other, but it didn't last long. Soon they were back to normal, with each boy courting me and trying to prove his love. Meanwhile, I'd discovered a new love - a cat named Beauty.

Part 4 - The Sexual Abuse

The summer after I turned seven my family moved to another town. This was to be my first move since starting school. Thankfully, I had a wonderful teacher that year. He was a Christian who often had us gather around him to sing songs to his guitar accompaniment. He read us stories and made learning fun - something I had not yet experienced up to that point.

My family's new home was in the Ozark hills of Missouri. We lived in the middle of a wooded area at the end of a long drive, which I would walk down each morning to catch the school bus. On the bus, it didn't take long for the driver to realize she had a rowdy bunch of kids, and within the first two weeks she developed a plan for arranged seating in alphabetical order. I got stuck next to a teenage boy whom I'll call Jack. The school I attended had junior high mixed in with elementary aged kids, and Jack was the all-out school bully. No one messed with him. In fact, he'd flunked the eight grade twice before, and may have flunked it again the year I knew him. The bus driver had given up on him, and because Jack's last name began with the same letter as mine, I was assigned a seat next to him, with him on the aisle. Jack was all fun and games, with one of those grins that any adult could see meant he was up to no good. Tall and scrawny, he'd been in more than his fair share of fights, and usually came out on top.

A few days after meeting Jack, he told me I was pretty and asked if I wanted to be his girl. Being the shy seven-year-old that I was, and knowing that nobody messed with Jack, I agreed. Soon after, Jack began to abuse me. He started by touching me in inappropriate places while I sat next to him, pretending it was out of love that he did so. He then insisted I should kiss him, and not just the quick peck on the lips. He wanted all-out French kissing from me. I didn't even know what French kissing was, but he was all too eager to show me. Again, I was too shy to stand up to him, so I went along with it. A few weeks later, Jack moved to yet another level of abuse. He told me I had to have what I later learned was oral sex with him. As a child, I didn't know those types of activities were even done, and he never used the term "oral sex." He said that when two people loved each other, that's just what they did. I told him I'd rather not do that with him, but he said if I loved him I would, and besides, if I didn't he threatened to tell my parents what I had already done. I knew I couldn't face my mother's temper, so I went along with him. Jack led me through the process step by step, obviously enjoying it, and old enough that he even experienced ejaculation. I didn't know what was going on, but I knew it was wrong and I didn't like it. All of this happened on the school bus, with Jack often holding his jacket up against the aisle so no one could see what was happening. One time a kid in the seat behind us stood up and asked what we were doing, but at Jack's threats, returned to his seat without saying anything further. While I believe the bus driver knew something was going on between Jack and me, she never reported it or did anything serious to stop it. I can only guess as to her reasoning. Perhaps she too was afraid of Jack, or perhaps she figured it was useless to intervene. I don't know, but perhaps seeing how long he could go without being caught was all in the fun for Jack.

After school, Jack often continued the same types of abuse on the ride home. I remember how each day after dismounting the bus, I would walk back up our long drive spitting and spitting until my mouth was dry. Then I'd go inside and rinse with water and do everything I could to get the nasty taste out of my mouth. I felt sick often, but there was nothing in my mind I could do to stop the abuse. It was about this time I first remember the sores showing up on my own female parts. I hadn't yet seen the sores, but I knew there was pain, and it was intense. At that age I knew nothing about STDs, but later, during my teen years, a doctor diagnosed my problem. Herpes. We're still not sure how it was transmitted, and the best we can guess is that it was transmitted from a cold sore on Jack's mouth to his hand to me. The abuse went on.

One day Jack told me his parents were going out of town the following weekend and he wanted me to come to his place and hang out. I didn't want to go, so I told him I had to ask my parents first. He said that was okay, but he needed to know as soon as possible. Afraid of being dishonest with Jack, I approached my mom to ask permission to visit Jack's house that weekend. She asked me how old Jack was and if his parents would be there. I told her his age, and that his parents were out of town. My mom gave a resounding "no" and said I was not going to visit some teenage guy's house when his parents were gone. She told me that was just asking for trouble. She was right. I told Jack I couldn't go, and when he asked me to re-ask my mom for permission, I told him she would never reconsider. I am extremely grateful for my mom's protection in that particular matter, as I don't even want to consider what would have happened had she allowed me to visit Jack's house that weekend. The abuse with Jack lasted the full school year, devastating and stealing away my childhood innocence. But Jack wasn't the only boy interested in me. There were others, four of them. However, their intentions were a bit more pure than Jack's.

Part 3 - Early Childhood Humiliation

While still living in the same place where my mom first tried to kill my dad, I made friends with two neighbor boys. They were brothers, and both were around my age. Being the tomboy I was, I enjoyed catching frogs, collecting locust shells, and exploring the woods across the street with them. My mom didn't mind my hanging out with them, so I did it as frequently as she allowed. At the same time, however, I struggled with an undersized bladder. This condition is fairly common among children that age, but hadn't yet gained the recognition from the general public that it has today. Thus, my mom thought I as a six-year-old girl was intentionally wetting my underpants. She argued with me day in and day out, insisting it was completely intentional and disciplining me each time she did laundry. When repeated spankings, often over 100 strokes each, failed to solve the problem, my mom began to believe that perhaps I wasn't intentionally disobeying her. She decided to take me to a doctor, who ordered a urine sample. The sample came back normal, and with me sitting right there the doctor explained to my mother that in his professional opinion I was simply rebelling. He suggested the problem could be a lack of discipline, and suggested my mother do whatever it took to let me know that behavior was not acceptable for a girl my age. She took him up on that advice.

On the drive home I sat trembling in the back seat as my mother explained how she'd never been more humiliated in her life, and she couldn't believe I would do this to her. She promised me the worst spanking I'd ever received, and told me I was not to play with the neighbor boys for two weeks. I shook, and tried to explain it wasn't intentional, but to no avail. She carried out her threats, but in the end took it even further. The next time the neighbors came over she took a pair of my soiled underpants to the door with her and literally showed the boys what I had done. She then told them I had been spanked and was not allowed to play with them for the next two weeks. She knew this would humiliate me, but to her it was jusitfied. I was a shy child by nature, and easily embarrassed, yet my mom seemed to enjoy humiliating me in front of friends, family, and total strangers alike. By that age I was used to it, but the event with the neighbor boys was one of the worst instances of humiliation I had endured. Thankfully, my family moved the following summer, shortly after I turned seven. But what I'd hoped to be a fresh start soon turned into an even darker nightmare.

Part 2 - The Attempted Murder

At age four or five, my parents, newborn brother (whom I'll call Jake), and I moved to another location. My mom had finished bible college and was now certified to teach music in the public schools, which she did. My dad worked various odd jobs, from working at Dominoe's to being a dispatcher for the local sherriff's department, in order to help with the bills. My mom became the dominant member of the family while my dad simply stuck around because of my brother and me.

One night, when I was approximately five years of age, my dad forgot to make the bed when he left for work. Upon arriving home that evening, my mother became furious. She and my dad argued for several minutes, at which point the full fury of my mother's temper broke loose. She suddenly hollered out "I'll kill you, you *******!" and grabbed the nearest kitchen knife. My dad hesitated for only a split second before running into the bathroom, my mom hot on his heels. Dad slammed and locked the door, and my mom continued to pound on it for what seemed an eternity. I stood perhaps ten feet from her wailing at the top of my lungs. I remember thinking that my mom was going to kill my dad, and that scared me. I loved him, and I wanted him to live, but all I could do was stand there and cry. My mom, annoyed by my wailing, turned to me and told me to shut up, which I did to the best of my ability.

Thankfully, my dad escaped out the bathroom window, but not without my mom hearing him. She opened the sliding door that led outside and yelled for him to come inside. He didn't. Instead, he stood outside on an old stump for at least half an hour, giving my mom time to cool down. When he did come inside, he simply picked up the phone and dialed the police, but by the time they arrived, my mom had convinced him to lie and say he had overreacted. The officers looked at him, at my mom, and finally at me. One of them asked my mom why I was crying if nothing had happened. She told the officer I was simply afraid of their guns. He looked down at me and asked if that was true. I wanted so badly to say no, and to tell them all about what had happened. I didn't want to lie, as honesty is a value that was drilled into me not by example, but by force as a young child. I knew it was wrong to lie to anyone, especially a police officer, but as I contemplated telling the truth, my mom shot me a look that told me I'd better play along, or else. Considering her temper, and afraid for my own safety, I nodded to the officer, indicating my agreement with the lie. The officer then proceeded to explain that there was no reason to be afraid of their guns, as they are only used to protect innocent people like me. The officer assured me he was there to protect and not harm me. I listened politely, then watched them leave. The last thing I remember that night is lying in bed with that "sick-to-my-stomach" feeling I got from crying too much.

After that incident, I went back to living life as normal. I tried to push it from my mind, and became the normal, happy five year old my parents' friends knew. Only my Father and I knew the pain and despair tucked deep within.

Part 1 - The Beginning

I was conceived out of wedlock. My mother, whom I will call Joan, had a wonderful future ahead of her in regard to her vocal abilities. She attended a Christian college in Springfield, MO, along with my father (whom I'll call Jeff), who later dropped out of school to help support the family. My mom was humiliated by her sin, and the effect on her reputation was devastating. Citing her desire to never drag her child on the road for tours, she became an elementary music school teacher and spent the majority of my childhood moving from town to town, which of course meant I, and eventually my younger brother, went with her. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My mom, aside from having a wonderful voice, is also a genius. I mean that literally. However, like many genius adults, she also suffered from a mental illness, which I later discovered as Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). Being a very young 18-year-old mother with emotional problems made life difficult for her. A common symptom of BPD is a lack of self control and an increase in impulsivity, often resulting in violent rages. Some "borderlines," as they are often called, take that anger out on others, while many simply take it out on themselves. My mom was the former for most of her life.

After my birth, my mother continued attending church, though inwardly she was convinced all Christians were hypocrites. As a young child, I was blessed with an intimate and sustaining relationship with God as my Heavenly Father. I grew up spending every spare minute praying, or as it stood in my mind, simply "talking to God." Thus, my first relationship to God (after being saved) was as a Father whom I went to with tears, pains, and trials on a regular basis. This blessing from God served to bring me through the next 15 years, during which I endured spiritual, physical, mental, emotional, and sexual abuse from various people.

One of my first memories took place at age three while living in a trailer court in Missouri. Due to the stress my tiny mind endured at that age, I began to hallucinate, especially at night while tired. One event in particular that sticks in my mind was a late evening near Christmas, 1986. My parents and I had already gone to bed when I began to "see" my closet door opening. What came out next, while it sounds funny today, terrified my little mind and left me frozen in fear. As I lay in bed watching, a "mean" Bert and Ernie exited my closet and made their way to my bed, where they stood mere feet from my shivering frame. I'd never enjoyed Sesame Street, but my father forced me to watch it anyway, citing its educational value. I'm sure that must have played into the Bert and Ernie part, as the characters in my bedroom were like taller (much taller) versions of those on television, only with angry expressions on their faces. I lay there praying, and finally got up enough courage to run to my parents' bedroom. I hurriedly woke my dad, who tried to talk me out of my fear. Eventually, however, my mom also woke up. She insisted my dad do whatever it took to get me to shut up, so he took me into the living room and let me open a Christmas gift a bit early. The wrapped gift turned out to be a "Glow Worm," which my little hands were not strong enough to operate. Nonetheless, I knew when enough was enough, and my parents would not believe me nor comfort me about the hallucinated images. So I went back to bed, and eventually managed to sleep.

Another memory, this one at four years of age, serves to demonstrate my relationship with God from early on in life. During this particular day my mother said something to insult me because of my being a Christian. While I don't remember her words or the precise subject, the feeling is all too familiar. It was a feeling of pain, and of being misunderstood. I made haste to my bedroom, where I sat cross-legged alone on my Winnie-the-Pooh bedspread and cried out to my Father. I remember today how His presence enveloped my little four-year-old frame as if God has somehow wrapped His arms around me and comforted my mind. Eventually the tears stopped, but not for long.