Amy's testimony "Thank You Lord" on 9/09/2013, 4:16am...
This testimony is important to me. I realise not many people will read this, but just with the hope of someone being inspired by my story I shall nonetheless.
My story starts when I was 12, 1/4 through the year. I was in school. I didn't really have anything overly tragic happen to me before. My parents were split. My father liked to drink. My mum had health problems. But nothing that was overwhelming. And back then I didn't really comprehend anything outside of my own narrow perspective, so I didn't really allow it to effect me. But I had this great friend who was a Christian and she influenced my life drastically.
At this time we were at school learning about child abuse. I remember feeling sorry for the victims, but still not understanding as it had not happened to me. And then I started to remember things. I started to have flashbacks of my past. Something horrible that I felt ashamed of even thinking about was crossing my mind. One day I could not bear this weight alone. I started crying, stressing, breaking down in the shower. Trying to decide what to do. I then thought of a brave solution.
The next day in the morning, after I arrived at school, I confronted the Christian friend of mine and said that I desperately needed to talk to her, privately. She accepted my request and we went out by the secluded Sport shed. I vaguely remember tears spill as I told her of these memories. I begged for advise, repeating 'I don't know what to do.' over and over again. She wisely said for me to tell my mum. She then sent a short prayer to The Lord.
I believe it was days later... Perhaps weeks. I kept putting it off, always looking for distractions and reasons to post pone it. But eventually I plucked up the courage to wake mum from her slumber and just talk to her. I lay beside her, crying yet again. She stroked my hair as she told me all about this well veiled family secret. I had been sexually abused. The important details I do not recall so no one will ever know. It was when I was 3. So young yet not young enough to have forgotten.
I was so depressed. So angry. So everything with all of these emotions spurting from me like a raging volcano. I felt disgusting also, another side effect. But mum provided much comfort for me, my blazing lantern in the abyss of black.
Weeks went on. I was slowly becoming more depressed, but at school I managed to paint on a smile. Trying to cover the gloom I felt under the mask. School, when I think about it, is like a masquerade ball. Pretending to be something on the outside you are not on the inside. Covering it with a mask. Well that is what I was doing. Also, my father could not be with me at the time so he sent me guilt money and a card supposedly for my debut in the schools production. This made me feel more isolated.
Soon my mum started to talk about counselling to me after my 13th birthday, I believe. I refused to go. Furious at the thought of a meek elder repeatedly querying about my feelings. But I held no stance on the issue. Mum made me go.
So I went to counselling. I remember for the most part crying and feeling no better what so ever after the sessions. It was futile. I was on this invincible train bound toward self-destruction. So after the mandatory lot of appointments I quit. Never to step foot in the building again.
I continued to wander through the desert of self pity and hatred. No drop of water could quench my thirst. I was just inconsolable. But school was my oasis. I could pretend to be whoever I wanted thanks to the distractions that naturally came in the environment, but at home the truth was inescapable. I partly think it is because I wanted it to be that way, I listened to sad music, my thoughts lingered on what had happened, I would also cry a painful amount. I was certainly not helping myself. I remember whilst listening to my sorrowful music I retrieved a comp*** from my pencil case and etched it on to my arm. The first time and not the last. But then I realised my uniform for school had short sleeves so I moved to my legs. I still have many scars.
And then about a month later I added to my list regrets. I started to obsess over my body. The fat. The food that fuelled the fat. I ran a lot, biked a lot, did many many sit ups. I admit I was pudgy, but no reason to be this extreme. Soon I would be counting every calorie. Limiting myself to 800 a day. I recall one time where I only ate a banana til' my overly healthy tea. Alongside lots of water to fill the boredom. I recall the pride I held toward my empty stomach. The deadly pride. I used to also love doing BMI counts. Ecstatic that I soon reached 16- which deemed me as underweight. And the comments I got- Amy, you are wasting to nothing. Or- My, you are just a bag of bones. Although, at the same time, I felt defensive of my secret regime and of myself, annoyed at the judgement although happy with the recognition. But what fully annoyed me was whenever I went to the bathroom my father would yell- I hope you are not spuing your food away! I took pride in the fact that I did not take the easy way out by vomiting so this in a strange way was an insult. I thought of as what I did was better as it took strength. But in the end all of this idiocy is the easy way out.
Soon I could see my spine, soon I could see my ribs protruding. Now 3/4 through the year I was still depressed. Still punishing myself with the point of a compass. But I started to show faith to The Lord. I always had, but not fully. I started to think less of the event that I unfortunately never forgot. I started even smiling at home. But I did not stop with the tight control I had upon myself concerning food and my body. The control gave me a wonderful sense of power; if I wanted to be thin I could be thin, it was as simple as that.
Then a few more months passed. And I started to look upon food as, not my rival but as a friend that I did not particularly like. And right at the start of the next year (2013) I was far better in that aspect of my life. For that I thank The good Lord and my mother. Had I not reached for The Lord at the time of my, so far, biggest trial, I may not have been saved. And the blessing of my mother- the support she gave me. What a splendid woman.
Then a little bit further into the year 2013 I think I only partly harmed myself because of the event, but also because of the fact my father was drinking a lot. Making me upset. Truthfully I did not like him all that much. So I grew sad and lonely whenever I had to go up there. One day after I fought with my father I reached for a pair of scissors. Soon after I called my mum and told her all about it. It took much courage on my part. And it released me from this huge burden that weighted me down. I was so scared, though, of her being angry. But she wasn't. She was the epitome of understanding. She made me feel loved and supported. She made me promise never to do it again, for her. And I haven't. I thanked God for her so many times in my prayers. She, alongside God and Jesus, is my saviour.
Now I am great. Soon to be ending my first year of high school. I have such an understanding of the world, I hold wisdom that I have gained from The Lord. And I love it. I have big plans for the future as God also does. Plans to help those less fortunate than I and to live a great Christian life. I am comfortable in my skin, although naturally have down moments. I love being healthy and exercising, but certainly do not mind the odd block (or two) of chocolate. And I especially love growing my faith. I love reading of facts that support my belief, they just reassure me in those times if doubt. And I have also become more open of my faith. Sharing it. Defending it. Of that I believe God would be proud, rather than me keeping this beautiful thing a secret.