movie, but the movie was real. The movie was my life. But at the time I just knew it was like I was outside of my body somehow.
Thatâs when my dad hit me hard. Right across the face. It stung like a million fire ants bit my face all at once.
My dad had beaten me and my mom in the name of God many times before, but never like this. He was pummeling me. Hard. I was down on the ground crouching into a little ball and my dad even kicked me while I was down there. I was screaming, trying to protect my head with my hands. I heard my mom crying and praying, but it was like she was doing it in some other language, not English. My dad was screaming something but I couldnât understand him either.
I crawled far enough away that I was able to scramble up to my feet and dart out the front door. I raced to my friendâs car.
When I got to my friendâs car she screamed that I was bleeding from my nose. I said my dad did it.
I never saw my parents again after that.
Thereâs more to the story. How I moved to the city and how I transformed my life and why I left the city after some pretty dumb stuff and how I moved back to my hometown even though I run the risk of running into my mom and dad again.
But Iâm dead to them, I think. My mom and dad, I mean. Iâm dead to them and I donât exist. Iâm dead to everyone else that I knew before. All of them. Itâs like I donât exist to them. My salvation, if ever I really earned it, Iâve given up through my bad behavior. Iâm a nothing. A mistake. But itâs taken me six years to know that if salvation means giving up every human thing about myself and becoming some robot with no real emotions, then I donât want it anymore.
I want to write more about what happened after that day I ran away, but as I type this, my eyes are full of tears. I need to take a break from this.
If anyone is reading this, thank you. Iâm still here. It feels so good to type that.
Iâm still here.
I stopped breathing halfway through the post and only after Iâve read the last word can I exhale. Iâm scared someone will hear me, the breath is so loud. I picture Mr. Sullivan at church after the laying of hands on my father, telling me the Lordâs steadfast love always endures. Telling me about his babies waiting for him and Mrs. Sullivan in Heaven when his living daughter hasnât seen him in years. I think of Lauren bleeding from the nose, crouched helpless like a wounded animal on the floor. Yes, the Lord has granted parents the right to discipline their children, but that isnât what God intended.
Iâm squeezing my fists so hard my arms are vibrating. I want to scream, yell, shout. A flash of Scripture flies through my mind, trying to correct me.
The discretion of a man deferreth his anger, and it is his glory to pass over a transgression.
But if that were true, then why did God let Mr. Sullivan get so mad?
For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.
Then that means that Mr. Sullivan isnât a real man of God, right?
A fool uttereth all his mind, but a wise man keepeth it in till afterwards.
Then am I a fool to be so angry right now? Am I as bad as Mr. Sullivan?
Nervous energy charges through my veins. So many missing pieces of Laurenâs story are a part of my mind, fixed there forever. After all these years, I know the truth about what happened to her, and it makes me so sad, even though Iâm shocked that she was able to get away with so much forbidden behavior while still part of our community.
When Lauren Sullivan was younger, around Ruthâs age, she sang in the Calvary Christian Church choir, belting out the songs so loud it was like she thought the words could float up to Heaven itself. She set up games in the parking lot after services to see which of us kids could run around the church building the fastest. She could memorize Bible verses faster than some of the adults, and she
Thatâs when my dad hit me hard. Right across the face. It stung like a million fire ants bit my face all at once.
My dad had beaten me and my mom in the name of God many times before, but never like this. He was pummeling me. Hard. I was down on the ground crouching into a little ball and my dad even kicked me while I was down there. I was screaming, trying to protect my head with my hands. I heard my mom crying and praying, but it was like she was doing it in some other language, not English. My dad was screaming something but I couldnât understand him either.
I crawled far enough away that I was able to scramble up to my feet and dart out the front door. I raced to my friendâs car.
When I got to my friendâs car she screamed that I was bleeding from my nose. I said my dad did it.
I never saw my parents again after that.
Thereâs more to the story. How I moved to the city and how I transformed my life and why I left the city after some pretty dumb stuff and how I moved back to my hometown even though I run the risk of running into my mom and dad again.
But Iâm dead to them, I think. My mom and dad, I mean. Iâm dead to them and I donât exist. Iâm dead to everyone else that I knew before. All of them. Itâs like I donât exist to them. My salvation, if ever I really earned it, Iâve given up through my bad behavior. Iâm a nothing. A mistake. But itâs taken me six years to know that if salvation means giving up every human thing about myself and becoming some robot with no real emotions, then I donât want it anymore.
I want to write more about what happened after that day I ran away, but as I type this, my eyes are full of tears. I need to take a break from this.
If anyone is reading this, thank you. Iâm still here. It feels so good to type that.
Iâm still here.
I stopped breathing halfway through the post and only after Iâve read the last word can I exhale. Iâm scared someone will hear me, the breath is so loud. I picture Mr. Sullivan at church after the laying of hands on my father, telling me the Lordâs steadfast love always endures. Telling me about his babies waiting for him and Mrs. Sullivan in Heaven when his living daughter hasnât seen him in years. I think of Lauren bleeding from the nose, crouched helpless like a wounded animal on the floor. Yes, the Lord has granted parents the right to discipline their children, but that isnât what God intended.
Iâm squeezing my fists so hard my arms are vibrating. I want to scream, yell, shout. A flash of Scripture flies through my mind, trying to correct me.
The discretion of a man deferreth his anger, and it is his glory to pass over a transgression.
But if that were true, then why did God let Mr. Sullivan get so mad?
For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.
Then that means that Mr. Sullivan isnât a real man of God, right?
A fool uttereth all his mind, but a wise man keepeth it in till afterwards.
Then am I a fool to be so angry right now? Am I as bad as Mr. Sullivan?
Nervous energy charges through my veins. So many missing pieces of Laurenâs story are a part of my mind, fixed there forever. After all these years, I know the truth about what happened to her, and it makes me so sad, even though Iâm shocked that she was able to get away with so much forbidden behavior while still part of our community.
When Lauren Sullivan was younger, around Ruthâs age, she sang in the Calvary Christian Church choir, belting out the songs so loud it was like she thought the words could float up to Heaven itself. She set up games in the parking lot after services to see which of us kids could run around the church building the fastest. She could memorize Bible verses faster than some of the adults, and she
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