Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on August 15, 2013.
Content note: self-harm, suicidal thoughts
“Told I talked too much made too much noise I took up a silent hobby— Bleeding.” ― S. Marie
Self harm. When the darkness inside at last leaks out and mars your body.
The reasons most people give for hurting themselves are complicated and diverse. Verbalizing the pain, punishing and satiating guilt, desiring control, a grasping to keep out the numbness.
My years of personal self-injury were mostly guilt-driven. As a preschooler, I saw an Easter play and believed that I needed to hurt myself for hurting Jesus. Every year, the repeat of the same drama I desired and dreaded so much drove deeper into my heart this need to crucify myself.
Little girl me thought that Jesus had to obey His father in the Garden of Gethsemane and die for me because she was a child and had to obey her parents. Surely it would be wrong not to, and Jesus couldn’t sin. Therefore, little girl me believed Jesus was like this abused child that was forced to sacrifice Himself for her.
She couldn’t understand free will. That Gethsemane was not about “I must” but “I choose.” That His love could never be forced.
So self-injury was more than just cutting. The bruises in hidden places and perpetual scabs all around my fingernails were just a symptom of an underlying issue. The proverbial iceberg that sunk the Titanic. An entire worldview lay under the icy waves.
When you believe that you are worthless, that you deserve to be punished and denied love, this perspective seeps mercilessly into every area of your life.
Self harm can be subtle. Some of my closest friends have said that they don’t deserve friendship or to even simply enjoy life.
“Aren’t we supposed to be focused on the next life and not enjoying this one? I don’t have to have friends. I’ll just be alone.”
“Why I am so stupid?”
“I don’t want to inconvenience the waiters at IHOP because I’m in a wheelchair. I don’t have to have pancakes.”
“Wouldn’t you eventually get over it [my suicide]?”
The words from our conversations drip like blood. Emotional wounds seeping silent tears. They don’t see that every person’s unique genetic composition and personality combination makes them irreplaceable. John Powell explained it like this: “You have a unique message to deliver, a unique song to sing, a unique act of love to bestow. This message, this song, and this act of love have been entrusted exclusively to the one and only you.”
The voices in our heads telling us that we are worthless are lies. Jesus said, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.”
Abundant life. Abundant even in the little things. Enjoying hot, syrupy pancakes with friends. Late night laughter. Life contains hardships, but we don’t have to seek them out. My friend Cynthia Jeub recently wrote that we don’t need to live like we were born to be martyrs.
I can live free, and be “free indeed.” I have not been denied love. I am (and YOU are) so loved.
P.S. Me and Pastor Mark Adams from First Baptist Church of Beaumont who used to play Jesus in the Passion Play. I went back to visit last month.
******** Shop at our Amazon store! As an Amazon Influencer, this website earns from qualifying purchases.
“If you really believe that, then you should go back to the United Pentecostal Church.” Did I say that? Yes, I really said that to a friend. There was a time I wouldn’t have considered it.
Earlier on, after leaving my former church, there would be times that a friend, or someone I knew online, would return to their former unhealthy group. It used to upset and puzzle me, but that changed after awhile as I gained more knowledge. Being upset was replaced with the realization that some people need to return for a period of time, in order to remember why they left in the first place.
This even happened to one lady, who during her time back in the UPC, wrote a book about returning to them. It was an attempt to help bring in the ‘backsliders.’ She worked in her then-husband’s ministry to get people to return. Then she left again, with no intention of ever returning. We were able to get together once after she left.
There are different reasons people return to an unhealthy church. They may have left before being fully persuaded in their own mind that it was abusive, unhealthy and/or that error was being taught. They may return due to fear. Sometimes the pull from family/friends and the desire for their acceptance is overwhelming. In this post I wish to concentrate on one aspect.
My focus today is what can happen when some time has gone by after exiting. The one who left may start having nostalgic feelings or may be craving the fellowship and excitement they had in their former church. They may not have gained many new friendships since their exit or they may not have found a new church to attend. During this time, they sometimes temporarily forget why they left, or may downplay the reasons, or the other feelings seem so strong that they convince themselves things will be different this time. They may even be fighting the ‘what if they are right’ thoughts.
During a time like this, it isn’t good to make decisions based on emotions or longings for the past. But sometimes it happens and the person finds themselves back at their former church or another in the same organization. They receive lots of attention, hugs, welcome backs and invitations of fellowship. Things feel sooo good! But as time goes on, and the initial love bombing subsides, they start to see once again why they left in the first place…and at times even see and experience worse things. They walk away once more.
If someone you know returns to an unhealthy church or group, pray for them. Sometimes they simply need to be reminded of why they left. God is more than able to keep them and see them through this time in their life.
I’m not sure when or how I got a copy of the Good News Bible. It was not allowed. There was only one approved version of the Bible and don’t you dare listen to those radio preachers. So I never heard the Good News, in fact most of it was bad news. If you don’t stop or start doing you will go to hell.
I was told the gospel was Acts 2:38, those three steps to salvation: repent, be baptized every one of you in Jesus name, and receive the Holy Ghost. You couldn’t say Holy Spirit, that was new-fangled and not in the approved version of the Bible. I can still see in my mind’s eye the huge wall size poster replica of stairs I painted for my Sunday school class depicting the three steps to heaven. Why kids, do these three steps and never make a mistake and you might, if you are “perfect” and never cut your hair, go to heaven. But you’ll never know for sure. God can be awful mean sometimes.
By the late 80’s to early 90’s, I rebelled. After years of crying, praying, and never understanding why I couldn’t be good. I started listening to the radio preachers, who gave me a glimpse into the Good News. Then in 1995, I began reading in earnest my Good News Bible and learned that the gospel is not Acts 2:38 but Christ’s death, burial, and resurrection for me. This gospel or good news is what I had missed all those years. It wasn’t my effort to save myself but His effort on the cross to save me that would get me to heaven.
And now I want to remind you, my friends, of the Good News which I preached to you, which you received, and on which your faith stands firm. That is the gospel, the message that I preached to you. You are saved by the gospel if you hold firmly to it—unless it was for nothing that you believed. I passed on to you what I received, which is of the greatest importance: that Christ died for our sins, as written in the Scriptures; that he was buried and that he was raised to life three days later… I Corinthians 15:1-4
When I would go to a pastor for advice or support rather than praying or studying the Bible for myself, or when I would feel that God wanted one thing, but would second guess myself due to something that was preached or something the pastor said, something was definitely out of balance. I put my health and others’ at risk by going to church sick and pushing myself beyond reasonable limits. I bent over backward to make a good appearance, and was afraid to say “no” to any suggestion that was made.
In service, if everyone ran, I ran. If they danced, I danced. If the pastor indicated we should shout, I shouted. But none of that was worship.
Worship is a way of honoring God. If a person is focused on what other people are doing or are expecting you to do, they are honoring other people, not God. Worship is a form of love. It is not a mechanical, directed display, but a focused, heartfelt expression of adoration.
God, I want to be a true worshiper. Let my focus, love, adoration and worship be on You. Not on what others are saying or doing and not on what anyone else expects or demands, and not on what actions I’m performing. Worship is not a science of specific words, moves and actions, but an intimate place where the words, moves, and actions cease to have importance, because all are outweighed by love. Teach me to worship.
That’s why I hide here in the dark So no one has to see my pain… But can You bring the keys to my heart And help me find the way? – TFK, In My Room
My growing independence unsettled my parents.
The fear crept in subtly.
I buried myself in 15 credits fall 2011. Several nights of the week, I stayed in the Math Center on campus doing calculus homework with tutors.
But Dad freaked if I didn’t respond to his texts or calls right away, threatening to call campus police to check on me. I explained I got absorbed in study and didn’t check my phone often.
He taped an index card that said “Campus Police: 719-255-3111” to the kitchen microwave.
The landslide started. I was 22 years old.
December 2011: I started seeing a Christian counselor because Mom took my sister.
I told him how controlling my parents were, and he encouraged me to set boundaries. I wrote in my journal that he told me to stop thinking in terms of “shoulds” and “musts” and more in terms of “wants” and “your reasonable heart’s desires,” because the former is living under the law, and the latter is “where freedom is and where Christ wants you to be.”
We met regularly until his retirement in April.
After finals, my parents raided my room, confiscating all Harry Potter books I owned and other fantasy they found objectionable. And two Harry Potter DVDs I’d checked out of the library.
Mom opened my bank statements. Said I spent too much money at Christmas. Opening any mail or packages addressed to me became a requirement for living in their house. I objected. They grounded me from attending a white elephant gift exchange party with my online writers’ group. Dad drove my sister instead.
January 2012: Dad said my hair had to be cut off because women with longer hair are more likely to get raped according to a book Mom read on self defense. I fought him for three weeks, gave in and donated 14 inches to Locks of Love.
My parents took away internet and cellphone access and driving privileges the last two weeks of winter break. I chatted with my friend Anna G. in Dallas on my mom’s iPad in the morning and on the landline with Cynthia B. so I didn’t hurt myself. I felt so trapped.
They threatened to prevent me from driving to campus for classes and work unless I signed a written contract. I didn’t like being manipulated, so I agreed to the chore list and asked them not to pay me.
My curfew was 7:30 p.m.
February 2012: I discovered my study buddy Racquel and Cynthia B.’s numbers were blocked on my cellphone. My mom said Dad told her to block them on our family plan since they’d encouraged me to move out. So I called them using campus phones.
March 2012: Dad and I fought at midterms because he wouldn’t let me study. I was enrolled in 17 credits (Organic Chemistry 2, Chaucer, Bacteriology, an English senior seminar, and a Merck honors research lab class) and tutoring on campus part-time.
I told him I wanted to move out after finals. He cried and told me he wanted to be a hedge of protection around me as long as possible.
April 2012: I bought tickets to go to New Life Church’s Easter production, the Thorn, for the first time. My dad said he didn’t approve, I went anyway.
May 2012: After finals, we took our last family vacation together to Camden, Maine. Mom and Dad said they had an idea. They would send me to Bob Jones University.
I didn’t want to leave UCCS after three years and attend an unaccredited school. I read the 2012 BJU student handbook and told my parents I wasn’t comfortable with rules like “on and off campus, physical contact between unmarried men and women is not allowed” and “Headphones may be used for educational purposes only and may not be used to listen to music” because it sounded Orwellian.
I didn’t want to leave one box for another.
They allowed me one phone call to Nia, a writing mentor. She said prepare to move out ASAP.
June 2012: Mom and Dad laid hands and prayed over me, saying I had been given to them as a loan when I was born and they were giving me back to God. They said determining God’s will for my life was up to me now.
I went with my writer’s group buddies to a 10:30 pm showing of Snow White and the Huntsman. I texted my parents before going. I came home, everyone was asleep. I woke up and the car keys were gone for a week as punishment.
July 4, 2012: I visited the Bob Jones campus with my family. I wasn’t allowed my laptop or cellphone so friends couldn’t sway me. I still didn’t want to transfer, even though Dad said I didn’t have to be a dentist if I went.
July 22, 2012: Met with my parents and my pastor after church. My pastor asked if I was being physically or sexually abused. I said no, my dad was just controlling and I wanted freedom to follow God on my own. He said the only way to honor my parents was to transfer to BJU.
July 23, 2012: I told an English professor and my chemistry research professor, Dr. Owens, what was happening. They listened to me, helped me sort my thoughts. Told me independence was part of growing up, that virtue in a closet is not virtue. Said to listen to my heart.
I told my parents to give me another week to decide. The next day, I got an email from BJU saying my registration fee had been paid. I called my mother and asked her to explain. She said they figured I’d go.
My parents tracked my location using the GPS on T-Mobile’s Family Anywhere feature. They checked multiple times a day and knew from the satellite map of the building if I was working in the research lab or standing in my professor’s office. So I was scolded for driving to a mentor’s house for advice.
July 27, 2012: I walked to investigate apartments near campus since my parents took the car. My mom told me they’d emptied my savings account of nearly $10,000. The funding I was using to leave. Money I earned working for Dad and money they gave me as my college savings.
July 29, 2012: Another meeting with the pastor. I said God’s will seemed muddled. He said I was letting Satan confuse me. He said BJU was the only Scriptural way to honor my parents. I twisted my hands in my lap, said I couldn’t do it. He said, “Then I’ve got nothing more to say to you,” and walked out.
I sat in the pew sobbing. My mom came in.
I said, “Do you realize I can never come back here for church now?”
July 30, 2012: Dr. Owens picked me up and took me to the bank so I could remove my parents from my checking account, which only had $200. I drove her car from campus to a downtown branch, but the bank couldn’t transfer the money back to my account.
I signed up for my own cellphone plan. And my friend Mary W. and her mom gave me one of their bikes, a helmet, and gloves for transportation.
August 1, 2012: I signed a lease for an apartment with my roommate. Dr. Owens gave me $500 towards the deposit.
Mom and Dad said my possessions must be out of the house by 5 p.m. Around 3 p.m., I texted friends for help. I dragged furniture and boxes out onto the front porch in pouring rain.
Five carloads of friends came, carrying my punk pink-haired friend Kat, Ivy, Adaeze, Elsie, the Peveto twins, and Kristi and John.
Mom took my house key, but she couldn’t kick me out in front of all my friends. We pulled up at the apartment complex around 7 p.m.
