Writing to Worship

Wine

“You are so strong!”

This is what my friends tell me when I update them on my life. It is what my boyfriend reassures me with when I am struggling. It is what my counselor reminds me of when I am afraid. Why does a history of abuse automatically make me strong? I am not strong; God is strong. I am weak.

If I were strong, I would be able to control my emotions, my thoughts, and my body. Yet, time and time again, I find myself at their mercy. I try to fight; I fight with numbers, breathing exercises, redirection, and grounding routines. Sometimes I win, but mostly I lose.

A couple weeks ago I was at my dear boyfriend’s home for dinner. I suspected that there would be wine there, and I thought I was ready. I had been around alcohol and drinkers enough to know how to keep calm and stay grounded. Heck, I could even manage a drunk man getting in my space and yelling at me without losing it like before. I just pick something around me and try to understand every part of it. Or, if that is too hard at the moment, I focus on the material of something near me whether that be my shirt, a table, or a wall. It is all about redirection–don’t think about it and don’t lose. A quiet family meal with a little wine was no big deal.

It was a wonderful meal with special people. Our plates were nearly half empty, and my breathing was still relaxed. My boyfriend had a glass of wine, which I knew would happen eventually in our relationship. I trust him like no other, so what difference would one glass of expired grape juice do?

Our plates were nearly empty and so was his glass of wine. He asked for a second. My mind began to calculate: he is fit and does not drink often. . . two glasses could affect him. No, stop! Don’t go there. He knows what he is doing. It’s a big glass. . . stop this!

He finished his plate and leaned over to whisper something in my ear. I can’t remember what he said because I did not hear it. Instead, I heard, “Aren’t you a pretty lil thang. Lookin’ fine today aren’t we?” He stepped towards me but tripped over the crowbar on the floor. Curses filled the shop. I could run, but if I were to get caught before I got to the door it would be a lot worse. More curses rang out as he banged his head against a newly-stained frame hanging from the ceiling. Being 6’4 had its disadvantages.

“You’re quite the distraction, ain’t ya? Got me full of bruises before 4 p. m. Whatcha gonna do to fix it, huh?” He stepped across the last few feet, his long stride covering it before I could make my decision. It was too late to run. His breath hit me, reeking of beer. My stomach turned, and I wondered what he would do if I puked on him. He reached for my wrist, and I closed my eyes, beginning to count. 3 6 9 12 15 18 21 24 27 30. . . I felt his hand begin on my knee as it began its climb. It interrupted my counting, and I began again with 4 8 12 16 20. . . but the hand stopped.

“Are you okay?” My boyfriend’s loving green and hazel eyes were looking back at me, but all I saw was the way the veins in his eyes were larger and redder than normal. His pupils were tiny specks and covered by an unusual gloss. It’s Joe–you are fine. He knows what he is doing. Plus, remember that one time he told you about? He said he was a polite drunk. Even if he gets drunk, which he is not because you’re just crazy, he will be nice. 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55. . . look at him you psycho!

The second glass of wine was gone. I was at my 5th time counting to hundred by every number up to ten. You’d think I’d be better at math for all the counting I do. All the plates were cleaned and something economy and government was being discussed. On a good day I barely follow, and today was not a good day. You’ve got to say something or they are going to know something is wrong too. Stop thinking about the stupid wine and pay attention. His voice is louder than usual. Okay, they are o a new topic–follow it! Why is his voice so loud? It isn’t that loud–I need to stop being so sensitive. Wait what. . . he just said he would punch somebody! Don’t react, do not react, 7 14 21 28 35. . . why would he say that! No quit this you idiot he was just joking. I need to be nicer to myself–this is a result of trauma. My heart is racing, I am having trouble breathing, I am sweating. Shoot, do I have deodorant in my purse? I think I do. Why are his hands flying around like that? He doesn’t normally do that. He’s leaning in. . . I think he is going to kiss me! Breathe! 8 16 24 32 40 48 56 64 72 80. Okay, he is done but he is looking at you weird again. Do not cry. Do not cry!

We are now in the kitchen. He went to the restroom, and it is just me and his mom. I can breathe again. My heart rate is slowing. His mom has a warm smile, and I feel safe. The toilet flushes, and my breath catches. What is wrong with me! I should not feel this way about my boyfriend–I love him. I want to marry him. He won’t hurt me. He loves me. Relax.

He comes into the kitchen, but his movements are off. They are more exaggerated, and it looks as if the air is thicker to him somehow. His speech is slower now too, and his words are fading into one another. He is drunk! I need to leave now. You can’t leave; if you leave you will never come back here. Do you want that? Is that what you want? How are you going to marry him if you can’t go to his parents’ house? But he is drunk! He is not drunk. You’re just overly vigilant. He is drunk! No he is not. Here he comes. . . act normal or his mom will think something wrong.

He goes to the nuts sitting on the counter on the other side of me and his mom. Good, this will take him a bit. You are fine. Five minutes pass by, and I manage to not count for them. His mom helps a lot and so do the nuts. Then he brushes off his hands and comes near me. Shoot this is it. He is just going to hug you, stop freaking out. Look at his eyes! His breath! Oh my gosh his breath. He puts his arm around me and gives me another kiss on the cheek. I feel my eyes start to water, and I can’t tell if I am going to cry or if it is from the alcohol smell. Let go of me. . . please just let go of me. He starts to move his hand, and it is a little rougher than normal. Don’t touch me. Shoot, I am going to cry! His mom is right there. Oh no. . . 9 18 27 36 45 54 63 72 81 90 99. Okay, you’re not crying–good.

And the night went on. . . and on. . . and on. I should have enjoyed that night, but instead all I could do was minute by minute try to hold it together. I hate the flashbacks and the emotions, and I hate what they do. Feeling such trepidation and disgust towards someone I love so dearly was a feeling I never want to have again, but I feel so weak to control it. Once the emotions get ahold of me, I can’t shake them. My mind becomes a place I don’t want to go, but it is the only place I can go during those times.

Later that night, Joe held me for a long time while I cried and explained to him. Then he came and held me again the next day after I had a night full of nightmares and a morning full internal battles. I began to feel safe in his arms again, and it was beautiful.

I am weak. I lose to my fear and my mind all the time, but God is strong, and He sustains me. When I am weak, He is strong. In those moments when I am losing, I need to reach out to God who is all-powerful. He has brought me this far, so why should I doubt Him? In my weaknesses, struggles, and hardships, His power and healing shine. I am thankful that I have a loving boyfriend whose patience and commitment continuously amaze me, dear friends who share the hardships of life with me, a Mom who loves me unconditionally, and a God who turns my brokenness into beauty.

“‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. ¹⁰That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” – 2 Corinthians 12:9-11

Grandpa Ron

In memory of my Grandpa Ron Stockton. Elvis Presley’s voice fills the RV. The words of “Put Your Hand In the Hand” collect in my nearly teenage mind. My dad sits in the driver’s seat, fiddling with his radio. The twenty-seven hour drive bores him, and he finds his entertainment in trying to communicate with the semi-trucks on the freeway. My mom stands in the kitchen, which is about half the size of a modest bathroom. Her legs are spread wide and one hand clutches the bathroom door frame as she lifts chilli into the microwave. The RV lurches and sends chilli down my mom’s arm and onto the stovetop, and she mumbles something about my dad being too stubborn to stop for meals. Clucking and squacking drift to the couch, where I am squished against our two dogs and cat. The bump must have woken up the chickens and birds. Now, an RV blasting Elvis Presley while an exhausted mother tries to prepare food for her husband, daughter, two dogs, one cat, two chickens, two birds, one bearded dragon, five tree frogs, three toads, two salamanders, four snakes, and one tortoise might seem like a rare occurrence to most. To me, this was tradition. Every winter since I could remember, we would all pack into the RV and make the three-day (actually two since my dad refused to stop) trip to Fort Myers, Florida to spend a month with my Grandpa Ron. My mom homeschooled me, and my dad ran his own construction business, so we could spend a month or sometimes more with my Grandpa. “Don’t use so much water!” I shut off the faucet and started scrubbing the left-over chilli bowls with the little water left in the sink. As soon as we were out of the driveway, my mom became the RV water police. “How far out are we?” I ask. “30 minutes.” My dad sounds like he hasn’t slept for days, which is true. Sometimes we camp out at a rest stop for a few hours, but rest stops make both my parents nervous. Something happened before I was born that involved a guy coming into the camper and my dad going through the bedroom’s sliding door (literally because it was locked, and he couldn’t get it open). Turns out the guy was just drunk, but they did without a bedroom door for a while. “May I co-pilot now?” My parents only let me sit in the co-pilot seat when it’s my turn to keep my dad awake or when we’re almost there. “When we are ten minutes out,” my dad barked. He really needs sleep, I thought. Since my parents were now engaged in some sort of argument about my Grandpa and his new boat, I snuck into the bathroom to get the animals ready for arrival. We had the chickens confined in the shower for the trip. Flower and Snow Ball began clucking enthuasiastically when I opened the door. Flower was pitch-black with a crown of feathers flopping every which way on her head. Snow Ball was all white fuzz except for her wings, which had some gray feathers. I cleaned out the shower and put down more newspapers before turning to the sink, which had one of the salamanders and the frogs. I misted their travel tank and dropped in a few more worms. By the time the animal preparation was complete, we were ten minutes away from my Grandpa’s. I plopped down in the massive co-pilot seat and patted the spot next to me for Mickey, one of the dogs, to jump up. The smooth asphalt stretched out for miles and miles ahead of us. I could see the heat radiating from it as the waves climbed upward before losing their strength about a foot from the tar. Palm trees reached towards the sky on either side of the highway. “Look, there is Sonny’s!” I pointed at our favorite southern barbeque place in the whole state of Florida. They had an endless plate of ribs that my Grandpa always said I couldn’t finish–I proved him wrong every time. “Sit back so I can see.” My dad was slowing the RV as we approached the little backroad that led to my Grandpa’s cul de sac. We turned on to the road, and the RV was thrown about as it began to pick up speed again. There were more holes in the road, and the edges had been washed into the deep ditches along side. Vines hung from the massive bald cypress trees and made screeching sounds as they slide against the RV. Spanish moss draped over the branches like a knitted blanket, and the smell of heat and water drifted in through our open windows. Before long, the forest drew back and small houses appeared. I spotted the orange tree that we had picked from every year. The yard it grew on was for sale, and we loved to snatch the sweet, juicy oranges from its branches on our bike rides. We turned off Old Olga Road and onto Wise Way. Some of the houses grew taller and yards wider. I could recognize every tree on this street, though one pine tree stands above all the others. It is the tallest tree on the entire street. That pine tree means it is time for me to start begging my parents to let me out of the RV. After a minute of pestering, my dad unlocks the door and slows just enough to let me out. I leap from the RV and head for the short cut to my Grandpa’s house. The thick, Florida grass is cool on my feet as I race across the little meadow. I can now see and smell the river; the wind from it lifts my hair and makes the intense sun a little less shocking. My dad sounds the RV’s horn behind me as he turns onto Wenola Court–my Grandpa’s street. I am pretty sure the horn startles everyone on the cul de sac, but I don’t care because I can see my Grandpa’s door opening. He is walking towards the meadow, and I pick up pace. His white shirt with light-gold stripes twists in the wind. I can see the gold necklace that he always wears shimmering in the sunlight. He has two different shades and lengths of socks on, and he is grinning at me with the biggest smile. When I finally make it to his driveway, my hair is flying in every direction, and I can barely breath. I pause just a few feet away from him, suddenly unsure and waiting for my parents to park the RV and catch up. It has been a year since I’ve seen him last. “Gosh darnit, did you grow another foot?” He exclaims in less family-friendly language. I’ve tried all sorts of methods to get him to stop swearing–coin jars, cookies, newspapers, alternatives, and the like. I usually make some progress by the end of the visit, but we’re back to ground zero by the next year. “Get over here!” My foul-language-relapse analysis is interrupted as he holds out his arms for me. I step into his embrace, and the many months and miles of distance fade away. I can smell his three-in-one soap, the only brand of soap that he will spend money on. He holds me tight for a moment longer before letting me go to hug my parents. Excitment wells within me as I picture tomorrow morning. Tomorrow, like every other morning after we arrive, we will go to Alva Diner for breakfast. Grandpa will order a ginormous plate of biscuits and gravy, mom will order eggs benedict, dad will get bacon and something, and I will get one buttermilk pancake the size of my plate. Grandpa will say that I can’t finish it, but I will finish it and even ask for another one. He will pretend to be appalled, but I will see the twinkle in his eye. I can’t wait to watch America’s Funniest Videos in his living room while he falls asleep after only five minutes. I can’t wait to make clam chowder in his kitchen as he and my parents boast about who makes it better. I can’t wait to go to Fisherman’s village and walk through all the shops as he makes jokes, embarrasses me, shows me off to people he doesn’t even know. I especially can’t wait to put that fake cockroach that I’ve carried all the way from Minnesota in his chair. I can not wait to make memories that I will never forget. Grandpa Ron, thank you for stepping into the role of grandpa that my biological grandpa stepped out of when I was just a baby. Thank you for showing me what it means to have a grandpa. Thank you for embarrassing me and teasing me until I thought I would die. Thank you for putting up with me and all the animals even though you didn’t especially like animals. Thank you for always making me laugh and cheering me up. Thank you for driving twenty-seven hours every August to be there for my birthday, even when you barely drove to the grocery store. Thank you for always sending a card and gift when you could no longer drive yourself. Thank you for making my first trip without my parents one of the best ones ever. Thank you for letting me drive your Mercedes all over town and even to the beach. Thank you for making my first years as a driver unforgettable since you acted as though we would die every time I got behind the wheel. Thank you for always keeping me company through the phone whenever I was on a long drive. Thank you for never forgetting me even when you forgot so much during those last years. Thank you for being the stubborn, cheerful, goofy, loving Grandpa you will always be in my heart. I love you, Grandpa Ron.

A Cup

Today, I was standing in the kitchen waiting for my mug of Honeycrisp cider to heat up. One minute and thirty seconds left. Two of my roommates are sitting at the table bickering about something trivial. They’re throwing around names of characters–this evening’s argument must be about a show that they’ve been watching. The basement door opens, and my third roommate walks through, rolling her eyes and quietly laughing at the scene. One minute and twenty seconds left. One roommate holds up her hand as if she’s annoucing the winner of the election (too soon?), and spouts off some fact. My other roommate slams her phone down on the table and lets out an uncomprehendable exclamation. My heart jumps, and I feel my breathing become erratic. It’s just your roommate. She won’t do anything, I try to convince myself. One minute and ten seconds left. I breathe in through my mouth and out through my nose. Wait, maybe it is the other way around. . . in through the nose and out through. . . My thought races from me as my roommate’s shouting increases. I try to focus on the microwave’s timer and twirl a strand of my hair as if I’m not worried at all. One minute and five seconds. She lifts up her cup and brings her arm back past her head. My breathing catches, and I notice the now detached hair in my hand. I force my hand to let it go, and it drops to the floor. One minute and three seconds. Her arm rushes forward, and her hand releases the cup. My eyes squeeze shut, and I feel as if I am in one of those snow suits where you can hardly move or feel anything. Despite the numbness that has taken over, my body tenses in preparation for the piercing pain that never comes. The cup clatters to floor near my feet. One minute and one second.

With every nerve vibrating inside of me and my mind firing as if I had just avoided a near motor-vehicle crash, I make my way to the table and sit down with them. I am smiling, but if they were to look closer, they’d see that my lips are twitching. Within me, the needles are weaving the strings all about, trying to repair the torn threads that connect me with my roommates. I wish it were as easy to unravel the fifteen years of abuse as it is to unravel trust. The microwave beeps five times, but I don’t hear it–I’m listening to God’s whisper of truth. Right now, I am really grateful for His whisper.

Sierra

A hoof stomped the damp dirt, spraying mud against my face and church shirt. I looked up at Sierra’s toffee-colored face. I was crunched up on the ground, and she towered above me. She lowered her head and nuzzled my shoulder with her velvet nose, smearing molasses on my shirt. My mom would be mad. We had just returned from the junior-high youth group, and I had raced out to the barn as soon as my mom parked the car. Some of the girls had taken my Bible, a gift from my Grandma, and burned it over the campfire. Although I was accustomed to such experiences as the dorky, home-schooled farm kid, I needed an escape from the yelling and swearing that I knew would soon ensue inside our house. In the barn, I only heard Sierra and her foal crunching their hay and the singing of the barn swallows. Sierra’s colt trotted up beside me and began his daily attempts at eating my hair, which blended in with the chocolate stall boards behind me. His short breaths tickled my neck, and the scent of honeydew surrounded me. Horses’ breath had reminded me of honeydew for as long as I could remember. His relentless pestering forced me from the ground, and I climbed onto Sierra’s cottony back, safe from the foal. I laid on her back and listened to her deep breaths, my hair mixed with her white and black tail. These moments were worth the many months I spent baking bread and mowing lawns to buy her. Here I felt like a young bird hiding away in its mother’s nest, watching the world from a secure and stable place. Here nothing could reach me. I stayed in this position until the owls started screeching, and then, I knew it was safe to make my way to my bedroom.

The next morning was chilly, but the sun was rising above the hills; it would be hot soon. I grabbed my faded, torn tee-shirt and raced to the barn. The hens had been sitting on their eggs for almost three weeks now. I had heard peeping the afternoon before. After much coaxing with corn, I lured the brooding hens from their nests and peeked at the green and blue eggs. A few eggs were pipped, but no chicks had hatched yet—they should break free by the end of the day. I turned the water on and flung the hay over the fence, covering Sierra and the foal. Sierra didn’t shake the hay off and whinny at me like she typically does. She must be tired from the late night, I thought. I shut the water off and went about gathering up the good eggs, cracking a couple in the process. The sooner I finished my chores and school, the sooner I could return to the barn.

It was around seven when I finally broke free from the house, my mom yelling after me as I once again headed for the barn to see if the chicks had also broken free from their oval prisons. The goats were bleating louder than usual; their cries reaching all the way to our backyard. I would see what was going on with them after I checked the hens. I lifted the latch on the barnyard gate and squeezed through, adding another tear to my shirt. Turning around, I held up my hand in preparation for the onslaught of Sierra and foal. My hand met air. I scanned the pasture and saw Sierra in the lower corner–she was on the ground with the foal standing over her. I sprinted towards them but slowed a few yards away, not wanting to startle her. She was lying with her head extended and legs stretched out. Her side was shaking with her breathing. I placed my hand on her neck; it came away damp with sweat.

The neighbor girl leaned over the fence on the other side of the pasture, asking if the chicks had hatched yet. I shrieked for her to run to my house and get my parents. She took off as I ripped my shirt off, grateful for the tank top I chose to wear that morning. I stretched the shirt under Sierra’s head and strained against it. She had to get up.

“Come on, girl. You can do it!” Sierra opened her eyes and pulled her front feet under her. “That’s it—you’re doing it, girl.” She lifted her front half from the ground, sitting like a dog. Then her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the dirt. Her left hoof caught my bare shin, and my blood mixed with her sweat trickled down my leg.

“No, girl, you have got to stand up!” I fell to the ground beside her, my hands sinking into her tri-colored mane. I heard shouting from the barnyard; my dad’s thunderous voice startled the colt and he darted behind Sierra. His size-fourteen boots appeared in the corner of my eye, his breathing drowning out Sierra’s. Before my dad could catch his breath, my mom joined us with the vet on the phone. The vet would come as soon as she could, but she told us to get Sierra up and keep her moving until she arrived.

“She is just fine. We’ve just got to get her up, then she will be right back to normal.” My dad’s words would have been reassuring if not spoken as if he was shouting at his football team after a loss. With my parents’ and the neighbor girl’s help, we got Sierra to her feet. I walked her, encouraging her forward step by step as the sun sank lower in the horizon and the air grew cooler. Sierra pressed her head against me, leaning on my shoulder from time to time when she faltered. My feet began to blister and bleed, and the foal soon stopped following us around the pasture, but we kept on. Then, when the sun had fallen below the hills, she shook and lifted her head from my shoulder. The foal perked up and pranced over to us. She nuzzled his back and let him nurse. I sank to the ground and watched. I faintly heard my mom on the phone with the vet updating her on Sierra’s situation. The vet said she would still come and make sure everything was okay.

Once my mom hung up, she came and sat next to me on the grass, offering me a Werther’s candy. We both leaned back and looked up at the emerging stars, listening to the sound of the owls and geese. The birds’ chorus was interrupted by a thud and squeal; Sierra had fallen. We pushed and pulled until the vet’s headlights illuminated the pasture. The grass was torn up around her, and our skin was damp and shining in the lights. The vet stuck a needle in Sierra’s neck, saying it would ease the pain and help get her back on her feet so she could do some tests. We did get Sierra back on her feet, but this time her head hung so low that her nose touched the ground. Her tail fell dead against her hind legs, not flicking the mosquitoes or gnats away. The vet listened to Sierra’s stomach and chest, then turned. Her white face shown in the dark like that of a lamp without its shade. I couldn’t look at her face, so I fixed my eyes on Sierra who stood motionless a few feet away from me.

“She has a severe case of colic. We would need to bring her in and perform surgery immediately.” The vet paused, avoiding my eyes.

“Then let’s do that. I will pay for it. Come on, girl. Let’s load you up.” I reached for Sierra’s halter.

“Wait, honey.” The vet’s voice faltered, and I felt my body chill as though someone had dropped me into an icy lake. “The chances of her making it to the clinic are extremely slim, and she would be suffering the entire time. Even if she did make it there. . .” Her voice faded and all I heard were a few words about her heart rate being too fast and euthanasia. I felt a hand on my shoulder. Sierra’s head was inches from mine; somehow, I was on the ground again. Her labored breath blew my disgruntled hair from my face. I leaned my face against hers, and she let out a gentle nicker. I knew I was sobbing by the tears streaming down our faces and the erratic jerking in my chest, but I couldn’t feel it. My parents were grabbing my arms and trying to pull me away. As I was being lifted from my mare, I wrapped my arms around her neck and buried my face in her mane. Heat hit my face, and I felt the wall of numbness melting away with each second I clung to her. When I couldn’t hang on any longer, I fell and was dragged along with the colt out of the pasture. It was as though a bomb exploded within me and left my interior in shambles. Breathing, hearing, and seeing tangled together within me. Sierra lifted her head and tried to follow, but she tripped and tumbled to the dirt, never to rise. My ears struggled to translate the sound, but the thud traveled through the ground and up into my bones.

It was outside of that pasture, with Sierra’s lifeless form on the other side of the fence, that my dad did not yell or swear but just held me and my mom silently. We stayed here, with the foal, until tints of blue streaked across the sky and the birds’ song changed tunes. What I, for so many years, found in Sierra—peace, comfort, acceptance, and companionship—I then found traces of in my family. Losing Sierra reminded my family of how valuable we were to one another. Although I lost Sierra, I gained a renewed family and an incredibly special bond with her colt, Sapphire—named after the color of the sky that early morning when we finally sat silently in one another’s presence.

Statistics

The auditorium was dark except for the plum purple lights lining the walls. The speaker was on break, and we were supposed to have ten minutes of freedom before being herded back down the halls like sheep. I noticed groups of students making their way to the halls despite the lack of overhead light. A young man’s voice came through the speakers: “Our apologies for the overhead lights. Please remain seated until the problem is resolved.” He sounded so formal, like we weren’t a bunch of college students serving as a captive audience for tonight’s speaker. What was her name? I really struggled with names.

Nearly five minutes later, the overhead lights flickered on, revealing the almost-empty rows of seats. Apparently the announcement was as effective as those “do not eat uncooked” warnings on cookie-dough packages. Evan swung over the seat next to me and plopped down, his aftershave making me wish my nose hadn’t begun working again as of two days ago.

“You feeling any better? Maggie said you actually took Ibuprofen.” It was a known fact that I avoided drugs of all types as if my life depended on it, which I thought it most certainly did.

“Ya, I can smell and taste again. Though I am regretting both since you sat down.” The scent of pine and manly things seemed to coat my mouth. Why did he need to use so much of it? It’s not like there’s much to shave!

“Splendid.” He pulled out his phone, and his thumbs began moving faster than any two thumbs should move. The lights flashed, causing his thumbs to move even faster. For someone who could care less about community nights, he still refused to use his phone while they were in session. The speaker climbed up the stairs. Her hair reminded me of wild straw, though that might have been because the spotlight was illuminating her every step like a search light. The lights people were seriously struggling tonight.

“Childhood abuse is crippling.” She paused, waiting for students to settle into their seats again. “Not only does it cause lasting emotional damage well into adulthood, it also destroys relationships.” I reached for my headphones and sent my pencil pack sliding onto the concrete floor. Evan elbowed me. His eyes completely brown in the dark room glared at me.

“What’s wrong with you!?” His whisper sent more aftershave in my direction. I just nodded towards the stage and tried to untangle my headphones. I’d almost won the battle when the words came, shoving their way into my mind without so much as a knock.

“Did you know that nearly half of all adults who have been abused as children go on to become abusers?”

That night in the auditorium was three years ago, yet those words haunt me. They haunt me in my dreams and when I am awake. But most of all, they haunt me when I feel angry. Most people would say their worst fear is death or loneliness. Maybe they say it is pain or even public speaking. What is my worst fear? It is anger.

I am sure the speaker had a purpose for stating that statistic that night. I just didn’t hear it.

For me, feeling angry means I will turn into my Dad. It means I will hurt those I love–that I will leave them with permanent scars on their bodies and souls. I know that this is not rational. I understand that I am my own person and that I make my own choices, but nothing incites more fear in me when I sense anger within.

About a week ago, my sweet German Shepherd teenager decided to bolt out of the house and go running. It was finals week, and I was exhausted. So when my doggo raced out of the house for her little joy-run, I was MAD. I marched out after her, scolded her in my deepest voice, dragged her back inside by the collar, and then put her in timeout in the corner. This may seem like a rather-typical day for a dog owner, but I spent an hour in my room crying that night. I had felt angry, and I wanted my dog to suffer. That was something my Dad would do.

When I was a child, still in elementary school, I didn’t know any better. When something hurt me or made me mad, I hurt it back. I stepped on a sharp stick? I broke it in half. Paper cut? I tore it up. I accidentally ran into a door? I hit it. The darkness is inside me.

Sometimes, when irrational replaces rational, I wonder what would happen if my students’ parents knew my story. Would they even let their children in my classroom? Would they trust me? Do I trust me? Sometimes I think about my future family. Should I even bring children into my broken world? I could not bear the thought of hurting them.

Statistics hurt. Memories hurt. This world hurts! But, I am not a statistic, and neither are you. There may be nights where I cry out in fear because I feel the darkness stirring inside of me, but I don’t need to fear the darkness. There is a Light inside me that overcomes the darkness. This Light is my hope. Here is the truth: I am not trustworthy, and I do not need to trust myself; I just need to trust Christ. And that, that I can do.

Have I ever hit my dog? No. Will I hit my children? No. How? Because I have something that my Dad did not have. I have a Spirit within me. A Spirit of love and peace, of kindness and gentleness. A Spirit of self-control. I am redeemed.