I’ve been going through the Psalms, writing them as if they came from my heart. It’s been a wonderful exercise and I seem to think of the Psalm the rest of the day. Some of them are happy; some are sad. Tonight, I got to the 22nd Psalm and as I tried to enter into the sufferings of David and Jesus, my own sufferings became vivid. Maybe writing out the Psalms is a good way to get the bad stuff out, like I used to do while in therapy when I wrote my life story in a journal. I hope this helps someone.
Why did you let this happen? Where were you? A question I used to ask. No more. I accept what happened. This world is a cesspool of evil. But mental pain brought me to you, the Lover of my soul.
Most of my life, I have felt like a worm, not a human being. Because my father molested me, I felt filthy and unlovable. But you, O Lord, are enthroned in heaven. All power is yours. I believe in you. You were there the day I was born. You took me out of my mother’s womb.
People say, “Why are you still thinking about the abuse? Get over it!” They make fun of me because of my social phobia and agoraphobia. Sometimes when I speak, they say I am crazy. They laugh at me when I gasp in terror when someone calls my name, “BELLE!” I peed in first grade when the teacher called my name. Pee filled the seat of my chair, poured down my legs and shoes and puddled under my desk. What happened next? Memory gone.
In high school, boys surrounded me, trying to feel my breasts, trying to take my bra off. Me? I wanted love and babies. But I was snow-white pure; a virgin head to toe. Then in high school, a boy told everyone he had screwed me. I was easy. He said it loud to a crowd of boys as I was walking by. A lie. They opened their mouths wide against me. My father says it too, “SLUT!” as he throws me against the wall. My heart has turned to wax.
But you Lord, are my strength. I want to tell everyone how you have saved me. You have heard my cry for help! One day, all will kneel before you. My children will worship and praise you!