© 2012 by Life Projects, LLC
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-4028-6
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from GOD’S WORD®. © 1995 God’s Word to the Nations. Used by permission of Baker Publishing Group.
Scripture quotations labeled NIV are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Scripture quotations labeled NLT are from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
Lyrics in chapter 11 are from “Waves of Grace,” written by David Noble. Copyright 1995. LITA Music (ASCAP). Administered by Justin Peters/Songs for the Planet, Inc., P.O. Box 40251, Nashville, TN 37204. International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
All dates, place names, titles, and events in this account are factual. The names of certain characters and some details have been changed in order to protect the privacy of those involved.
The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.
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To my heavenly Father,
for being the ultimate Redeemer
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Foreword
A Note from the Author
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
A Journey through the Years (A Photo Gallery)
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Back Cover
Foreword
by Justin Bieber
My mom is the strongest woman I’ve ever met. I’ve always known it, but this book has helped to remind me just how strong she is. I’ve always admired her. She is an example of a person who doesn’t compromise and doesn’t quit. Just by who she is, my mom inspires me to be a good man. And she is always pushing me to be better.
I know she has given up a lot and made a ton of sacrifices to be my mother and raise me. And I’m excited to see new things, like this book, unfold in her own life. I might be biased as her son and her biggest fan, but I’m a strong believer that my mom’s story is one that needs to be heard. As you read this book, you’ll find that her life wasn’t easy, as much of her early years were a struggle. It was hard to read about my mom’s pain, but I recognize how important it is for her story to be told.
Many women who have gone through similar experiences need a little bit of hope—to know there is light at the end of the tunnel. That’s what I know my mom can give through this story. As she shares about finding strength and peace, I hope you find the same. I wish you the best in your own journey. Know that God is with you.
I love you, Mom.
A Note from the Author
Thank you for reading my story. Before you dive in, I’d like to share with you my heart and my vision for this book. It’s about more than simply me telling about my life, because frankly, there are many parts of my story that I’d rather forget and that I’m certainly not proud of. But there are also instances of amazing grace for which I’m supremely thankful. I decided to tell my story not only for my own healing from a difficult past but also to help bring healing and liberation to those of you who may have suffered in similar ways. A major key in my healing was finding my voice—the voice I never had as a little girl. By giving that little girl a voice, I hope to help others find theirs and find the courage to use it. My heart’s desire is that my words bring others the hope that I have discovered in my own life.
I write especially for those of you who know the pain of sexual abuse as well as all those who have experienced abandonment, rejection, and fear. I write for those of you who believe you are damaged goods and who identify yourselves by the wounds of your past. I write to encourage you that there is hope, there is light, and there is a life worth living beyond the pains of the past. I write because I believe with my whole heart that you—just like me—can find your way to ultimate healing and freedom.
I understand that being honest carries some risk. The world is full of critics. Sharing bits and pieces of my life, and particularly of truth that isn’t very pretty and at times is hard to read, may lead to some questions about my intentions. My intentions with this book are not to accuse, vilify, or point fingers at anyone. I do not wish to share my story at the expense of hurting others. Believe me, I’ve made my share of mistakes, some of which I tell about in this book.
I have wrestled long and hard with how to authentically write about the painful details of my life without casting a shadow on the people I love most. I ask that you read this book without throwing stones. We’re all human and we’ve all made mistakes. Most of us, however, don’t have them aired out for the world to read. Understand that people change, as I have, and everyone deserves grace and a second chance. There are two sides to every story. This book is my side.
I’d like to acknowledge my family and Jeremy for their understanding in how they, and especially some of their vulnerable moments, appear as part of this book. They are part of a bigger picture. Their experiences too can help others for a greater purpose. I honor them for their courage and commend them for their bravery as I recount some hurtful memories.
You’ll see that Jeremy and I had a particularly difficult relationship. We were both young and immature when we were together. And I especially want you to know that just as I have changed, Jeremy has too, and he is a different man than he once was. I’m proud of how far he has come as a man and as a father. Today, I consider him a friend.
I’m grateful to all the family members and friends who are part of my story. I love them with all my heart and am thankful beyond words.
CHAPTER
One
I spent years wrestling with darkness and drowning in torment. And I’ve spent most of my adult life sifting through the tangled web of emotional wounds and the debris left by the darkness in my childhood. I’ve hobbled back to the early years of my life, painfully resting at the different events that shaped me through my childhood. And I’ve learned that sometimes you have to go through your past to get to your future.
One night I had a dream in which my job was to clean out every room in a gigantic house, which was made up mostly of bedrooms. The bedrooms belonged to girls of different ages, from babies to teenagers, and were stuffed with clothes, garbage, and toys piled almost a foot high. I was so overwhelmed by the task. In the first room, I coul
dn’t do much more than clear a bit of space around my feet by shoving some of the stuff to the side. So I decided to go to another room and try again. It was more of the same. I repeated this process in room after room, with the same result—all I could manage to do was clear a small space around my feet. I was frustrated. I didn’t have a clue how to start cleaning up.
As I stood there, unable to move, I heard a voice. Instinctively, I knew it belonged to God. “Go to the beginning of the house,” He said.
My dream self knew what I had to do. I went to the first room of the house, the living room, and started removing every single object from the room. I dumped everything outside—couches, lamps, rugs, tables, pictures, books—until the room was empty. Then I scrubbed the walls clean, repainted them, and brought back in only the items I wanted. One room was clean. Now I knew how to go back and clean the rest.
When I woke from the dream and meditated on it, I saw a correlation between the house in that dream and the events of my childhood. The different rooms represented me at different ages and the areas of my life I was trying to clean up or heal as an adult. The simple instruction from the dream struck me.
Go to the beginning.
I had already explored the early years of my childhood in therapy, and though the thought sounded crazy, I wondered if the dream meant I needed to revisit my life before I was born. Maybe some trauma had taken place while I was still in my mother’s womb. I felt stupid for even entertaining the idea. Go back to the womb? What sense does that make? How could something you never knew about have such a traumatic effect on you later in life? But I was willing to do it. I was desperate.
My father was an alcoholic who followed in the footsteps of his alcoholic father. I don’t know much about my dad because he left when I was two years old. I do know he was violent. My dad even pushed my mom around when she was pregnant with me. I’ve learned from talking to other family members that my dad was like a chameleon. While others saw him as a loving, charming, and gentle husband and father, we saw his hidden dark side.
Knowing I experienced violence even before I made it out into the real world disturbs me. It makes me think I showed up instantly unwanted. I mean, seriously, what kind of warm welcome can await a baby coming into a family filled with physical abuse? It seems my future was marred from the start.
My mom, Diane, was the oldest of ten children. She met my dad and got pregnant when she was sixteen, and they started a new life together in the city of Timmins, Ontario, Canada, before eventually moving to Stratford, a ten-hour drive away.
My brother, Chris, was born in 1967, followed just eighteen months later by Sally, the sister I never met. When Sally was five years old, her life was tragically cut short. My mom was four months pregnant with me.
I’m told it was a chilly November morning when my brother and Sally were getting ready to walk across the street to the babysitter’s house. As the sun made its early climb, Chris and Sally walked hand-in-hand toward the curb. Maybe Sally wanted to walk faster. Maybe she didn’t feel like holding her brother’s hand. No one knows why, but she let go. In the time it takes to blink, Sally had unlocked her little fingers from Chris’s strong grip and raced into the street, leaving a trail of giggles echoing behind. She didn’t see the oncoming car. Chris did. He cried out, but it was too late. Sally died upon impact.
I can’t imagine the guilt my brother must have felt after watching the car slam into his sister’s tiny body, knowing his best attempt to save her couldn’t cheat death. Chris and I only ever spoke of the accident one time. I’m sure the devastation was too much for him to revisit again and again. Just as it was for my mom.
My heart breaks when I think about the agonizing grief my mom went through, the pain that never goes away when you lose a child. And to endure the loss while pregnant? How do you mourn one child while carrying another in your womb? Is it even possible to grieve and celebrate at the same time?
Of course, I never knew any of this until much later. My mother never spoke about Sally’s death. In fact, I didn’t even know I had a sister until I was around ten years old when this time, I was the one who was hit by a car.
I was riding my bike down the street on a sweltering summer day, not paying much attention to my surroundings. Without looking, I swerved to cross the street and didn’t see the car coming from behind. It slammed into me, knocking me off the bike and onto the concrete road.
I wasn’t hurt, but my mom and brother saw the accident and started screaming and crying. They made a huge scene and dragged me, sporting only minor scrapes and bruises, into the house. I was both puzzled and annoyed by the drama. “What is going on?” I demanded.
Mom and Chris finally calmed down enough to talk without the hysterics. They asked if I remembered the pictures of the little girl we had around the house a long time ago. I didn’t remember. Or maybe I thought they were pictures of me so I hadn’t paid much attention.
My mom said, “They were of your sister, Sally. She got hit by a car and died when she was five.” I felt like I was in a Twilight Zone episode. I had a sister? Who was dead? It was all very strange. Then my memory pushed a tiny space through the fog and I remembered. I remembered pictures of Sally in the photo albums—pictures my mom had told me were of me. My sister and I looked practically identical. I imagine there were times my mom looked at me and saw a ghost, a phantom of my big sister.
Later I wondered if Sally’s death had anything to do with the disconnect I always felt between me and my mother. For years this disconnect had me convinced I was adopted, because I always felt like I didn’t belong.
Every now and then something would drive that powerful feeling to the surface and I’d go on a rampage. I remember one time in my teens when I frantically searched the house for a piece of evidence—anything that would confirm I was adopted. I had convinced myself my birth mother was somewhere out there. Maybe she was even looking for me.
I threw open every cupboard in the kitchen, rattling the glasses and china like an aftershock. I opened and slammed shut desk and dresser drawers throughout the house. There had to be something somewhere. Just one measly document. I rummaged through closets, tossing aside old shoes, musty sweaters, and dusty boxes of God-knows-what. I turned the house upside down that day like a narc looking for drugs.
With an unexplained desperation, I finally cried to my mom, “I know I’m adopted! Stop lying to me. Just tell me where the papers are. I know it’s true.”
My mom must have thought I was nuts. “Stop it,” she begged. “What are you talking about?” She grabbed a pair of photos and shoved them in my face, comparing our baby pictures side by side. “You look just like me! Why would you even think you’re adopted?”
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And I couldn’t calm down. Something in me was still convinced I didn’t belong. This was not my home. She was not my mother.
Where did those suspicions come from? And why did they affect me on such a deep level?
Go back to the beginning.
Damaging feelings don’t just show up out of nowhere. They’re birthed from experiences, from moments that wield the power to shape us. Sometimes we can’t even recognize the magnitude of those pivotal events until years later.
When my dad left us, it ripped a hole in my heart—one that began filling with thoughts and feelings that would challenge and ultimately damage my identity and self-worth. The wound of being abandoned travels deep and forever changes you.
Even today I can still close my eyes and feel the emotional chaos that marked my heart when he walked out. I was only two when my dad left, but I still remember it vividly, as if it happened yesterday. In fact, it’s my earliest childhood memory.
I remember my brother and me standing by the front door, blinking our big eyes and looking up to our father as he pulled on his jacket. He looks so serious. Where’s he going? Why is he taking a big suitcase? Mommy? As my dad knelt down before the two of us, he handed me a parting gift, a Thumbelina doll. When I
touched her plastic skin and looked into her big eyes that stared back at mine, I decided she was my best friend. As long as I had her, she never left my side.
“I love you so much,” Daddy began. “But I have to move far away.” He hugged each of us and slowly stood up, looking like a looming giant next to the toddler me. “I’ll always love you.”
As he turned his back to me, I could see his big hand pause on the knob of the front door. It felt like an eternity passed before he finally twisted the knob, opened the door, and walked out of our apartment. As the door slowly closed behind him, my heart reached out. I was too confused to actually cry out, but on the inside I was screaming for my dad. Don’t leave! Come back. Please, I need you. But it was too late. Daddy was gone. It would be the last time I would see him until I was nine years old.
As an adult, I’ve grieved not having had my dad around to call me princess, to tell me how beautiful I was, and to threaten the boys I dated. I’ve mourned the loss of not having a dad I could curl up and feel secure with. A dad who would teach me how to be a self-respecting woman. A dad who would remind me that I was valued and worth more than perhaps I believed I was.
In that moment when I was two years old, though, all I wanted so desperately was to climb into my mother’s arms and be soothed by the tenderness only a mother could give. But I couldn’t. The day my dad left was the day I had to start growing up. I had to wipe my own tears and pull myself up by the bootstraps. There was no time for sadness. No room for confusion.
It was also the day I began to learn that my mother, who did an excellent job working hard to provide for and care for our physical needs, wasn’t going to offer me the kind of warm and fuzzy maternal affection or the words of affirmation I longed for. She couldn’t. She had her own burdens to contend with. Her life in an abusive relationship, the grief of losing a daughter, and the added stress of her husband leaving her to be solely responsible for caring for two children stripped her of the ability to offer the kind of emotional support I needed. My mother was and still is a very strong woman. I, however, didn’t have that kind of steel survival strength. Not yet.
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