There were boys.

There were short boys and tall boys, clean shaven boys and tattooed-and-pierced boys.
There were boys with curly black hair, boys with blue eyes. Most had addictions. Some were strikingly average.

As soon as I turned sixteen they came into my life, one by one.  They came and went like weekends. They held my hand and promised me the world and broke my heart. They taught me to please so they could use me. Some disrespected, pressured and teased me. Others taught me intolerance and pessimism. Some made me feel worthless, like a passing fad. Some of the boys loved me sometimes. We had fun and made mistakes and learned new things about the mysteries of the other sex. We made good memories like glass snow globes, then dashed them on rocky cliffs. We built each other and broke each other.

Sometimes it was good. I fell in love with my best friend one summer, and we cuddled and frolicked under the stars. We were companions, and it was lovely for awhile.  

But it was always a cycle. Boy, butterflies, ecstasy, problems, disappointment, heartbreak. Even the good relationships didn’t break the trend, because I was still broken and restless. Dissatisfied.

On my twentieth birthday, after a terribly abusive relationship, I quit. I decided to take a whole year off from dating. That’s it. I proclaimed like quitting heroine, I’m DONE.

I had never not dated. It was all I knew how to do. At sixteen, I didn’t have any better options, like family support or true friends or self-esteem. So I dated and got myself into a world of instability, insomnia and self-hate.

Then, on September 26, 2005 I signed a contract with God. No boyfriends for one whole year, I wrote. Just you and me. That was the first time I took God seriously. I grew up in church pews, but I learned only guilt and judgment. So at twenty I asked can we start over?

And so we did. Instead spending all my time chasing, calling and dreaming about (insert boy here), I gave God a chance. I started talking to him to see what would happen. They weren’t prayers, really. Not what you would define as a prayer, at least. I took walks in the woods and said thank you for the flowers. You’re an amazing artist, I told him. I wrote in my journal and told him it was okay to read it.

I asked him questions. Who are you? Who am I? Who are we? Are we friends?
I did not know how or if he would answer. But I kept asking.

At this point, the years of relational abuse heaped memories on me until I couldn’t sleep, eat or breathe. I felt very, very broken. I had panic attacks so frequently that they all ran together in week-long stretches of pure hell. Everything was terrifying and I didn’t know why. I wanted to give up. I wanted anything but me and there and then.

I ended up one night on the cold cement floor of my basement laundry room, crying violently, hopelessly lost. In one second I asked; Where are you? Why am I here? Why am I this? Why is it not fair? Why can’t I breathe? Where is peace? Who are you? Who am I? Why can’t I forget? Why do I still miss him after what he did to me? Why am I so fucked up? Is there any way out? Does it matter? Do I matter? Do you care? Can I even be here? Can I tell you this? This is not a church-worthy prayer. Can you help?

There is this beautiful moment of clarity, where after all your mistakes you realize that you need God. That you need a second chance, and you are willing to do anything to take it. Finally, sobbing on the floor, I said, I can’t do it. I want your help. Please, anything. Anything. I will do anything. I want you. I want peace and love and hope. Anything. Please. please anything. It doesn’t even matter anymore what I would have to give up to know you, God. Where are you? How do I start? They tell me that you are good and that you are Love. They say you will forgive me and let me start fresh. Please.

In this beautiful moment I heard a quiet voice in my heart, say clearly, so clearly that I knew it with everything:

I will get you through this.

I held on to that promise with all of me. Most nights I ended up in the same place, panicking and begging on the basement floor. He just kept telling me: I will get you through.

It was the only hope I had that I was not ruined beyond repair. It was everything.

Slowly, I got to know God. I talked to him on walks. I found peace in nature. I asked people about him who seemed to know. I sang, danced, colored with crayons and climbed trees. I cussed him out at times. I found that the more honest I was, the closer we were. Conversely, the more religious I was (saying what I should instead of what I meant) the more walls I ran into.

It’s always a process.

And now?

I am eight months into my year of starting over. To be honest, this year has been hell. I am dealing with the wretched leftovers of the past. But I am facing my demons and finally healing. The best part is this crazy indescribable process of getting to know my God.

He’s a gentleman, ya know? I am used to being yelled at, pressured, used and belittled. Instead he is patient. I know that I am frustrating, but he just waits and keeps softly talking until I will shut up again and listen. And He is faithful. It’s a new concept for me, because with the boys I was just a temporary amusement, and I had to fight to keep their attention. But God, he sticks around. He takes good care of me and tells me not to worry. He is Big-L Love.

So now?

I am free and loved like never before.