MY TESTIMONY: I Know My Name Is Theresa
(Photo
of Theresa on top left taken in 1977 in Atlanta)
For most of my life, I felt unloved. I thought that my being here, just
being born was a mistake. I hated who I was even from the age of five years
old, and as I grew that hate on the inside became greater. I was depressed
and suicidal – yet, I lived each day without limits, willing to try anything
once and willing to dare anyone to take me on. I’d do stupid things just
because I could. I would defend myself at all costs when in a tight spot. I
was half hoping that, perhaps, in this crazy process I’d be killed by accident instead of being
mocked for taking my own life.
I lived this life in secret in a home filled with domestic violence. My parents argued and fought constantly. Only my dearest friends, who’d let me eat at their homes or spend the night with them when I had no where to stay knew something was not quite right within my soul. I had always believed that I would die before I turned 30. I would hear voices telling me to do things, and began punishing myself in secret with self-injury as I approached adolescence. I’d have days when I couldn’t get out of bed or moments when I was so angry that I felt like I could blow up the world with a simple wish.
Video games were my escape.
I was an
addict.
I had Mario'd and Zelda'd myself into oblivion at the close of the day. (Mario and
Zelda were popular video games.) I preferred role playing games or fantasy
games in which you take on the life of a particular character. In one game, I'd clocked 75 hours of game
play in less than four weeks. I'd stay up until 3 or 4am in the morning
battling dragons and demons. If I wasn’t doing this, I’d spend my
weekends hopping night clubs, surfing the web and casually drinking the time
away. Inside, I was a brooding time bomb hiding beneath the façade of a
wife, a mother and a career focused young
woman with a promising future.
My image of God was that of a warden and a punisher. I grew up in a deeply religious family where every sin was punishable and every sinner destined for damnation – makeup, earrings, pants, card playing, movies, etc. were forbidden. The only thing they preached in the church I attended as a child was “going to hell” if you did this or if you did that. The pastor’s wife looked at me one day and said, “You’re a bad one…” I stopped going to church shortly after that. I’d bolt from the house and disappear to keep my mother from finding me.
The thing is, I wasn’t “bad”
– just lost and broken. I saw myself as being dark and ugly, and I
desperately wanted to be beautiful. I was lonely because my mother’s schizophrenia
(mixed with a religious craze)
separated me from friendships, made me an outcast in my community and kept me from having a normal school life.
Everyone knew her in the small town where we lived, and I was teased
constantly. I was angry because of the physical and emotional abuse I suffered at her
hands. I
was angry about the sexual abuse I’d experienced in my life. I was
tired of being evicted and not knowing where my next meal was coming from or
where I'd lay my head at night. I was bitter
because I felt cheated by God of my mother's love and my father's adoration.
I was angry because I had never known my cousins, grandparents, aunts or any
relatives outside of the people in my home. I only knew faces, but had no
relationships with them. I felt absolutely worthless and
alone. The very people I trusted or believed
were supposed to love and protect me did nothing but abandon, abuse and/or
reject me. Instead of being a child I had become my mother’s mama and my
father’s burden. I grew up way to fast. I spent nights sleeping in abandoned
cars and walking the streets to escape the abuse. I escaped situations that
today I know only God could have gotten me out of. At 13 years old, I remember walking the street
near my home wearing a t-shirt, a slip, a busted lip and no shoes with these words from my
mother following behind me, “Ho’s belong on the street. Don’t come back
here! He’s my husband!”
The only thing I had with me was my notebook and a pencil. I managed to grab it as she shoved me out the door. So I wrote letters to God, as I had done since I was seven years old. No matter what happened to me or around me, I’d record it in a unique use of language that only I understood. Very often, however, I wrote in the form of poetry. As time went by, I became a strong liar and a master of manipulator. I knew how to use people to get what I needed. My motto was, “Get yours. Get them before they get you.” By the time I was 15, I was dating a man 10 years older than me. I was drawn in by the thug life he lived, the money and the access he seemed to have around town. One night, after wandering the streets for hours after being kicked out of the house again, I called a friend. We hooked up with this guy and his friends. One of the men present was over 50. After a night of binge drinking and partying in a hotel room, I was raped. My friend and I were dropped off a couple of blocks from our houses still drunk. We walked home in silence. I banged on the door until my mama opened it, half cursing me out about coming home so late.
“Come on in,” she said. She didn't even notice I was drunk. I showered, cried silently, and then crawled into bed.
The very next day, I was picked up by the police while getting off the school bus and brought to Child Services. My mother apparently saw the police arrive, and they told her why they were there. She had caused such a ruckus that an ambulance had been called. As I was escorted to the back of the police car, and from the rear window I watched as she was carefully strapped to a stretcher and loaded into the back. I later learned that she spent the next few days in a local mental hospital. This wasn't unusual though, she'd made a trip to the mental ward at least twice a year since I could remember. Apparently, there had been some complaints filed by concerned neighbors and teachers at my school about abuse in my home. The next few days were a blur as I tried desperately to keep the secrets brooding in my heart. Both of my parents were forbidden to see me. While I was thankful to be away from them, I didn’t want to be the cause of any further grief or embarrassment.
The next few months were rough. I was struggling to fit into the group home’s campus, and adjust to the house parents, therapists, etc. I would grow attached to people and then they'd leave, or reject me. The other children who were there had problems that were even worse than mine. Some days, I was even afraid for them. Within a few short months, my depression became so deep that my excellent grades went south. I was placed in a different school district away from my friends and the neighborhood I knew. I was dealing with the trauma of the rape secretly. There were all of these rules we had to follow. Adjusting was tough -- until I learned the ropes. I figured out quickly that all I had to do was be good. So when I did do things, I was the last person anyone suspected and seldom got caught. The voices in my head were increasing every day until I was convinced that I was more trouble than the world needed. So, after about a year I attempted to take my own life only to end up in a psychiatric hospital for troubled youth for six weeks.
For the following 12 to 13 years, I went on to build a life that despite all, remained troubled. I battled depression and suicide on a continuous basis. I continued to use and manipulate people – especially men during my college years. I did what I wanted, when I wanted, and I answered to no one. My anger had transformed into rage. My daring nature was bordering insanity. I had jumped out of a moving car in a fit of rage, participated in strip poker games with strangers, and would think nothing of pointing a gun to my head just for fun. I was making one terrible decision after the next.
My dislike for myself was now hatred, and the life I was living outwardly was a complete lie. My marriage was a wreck. My children were living in fear, and I spent 90 percent of my time enraged, and the other 10 percent in tears. My only calm came from spending hours playing video games or from the medication I requested from my doctor which left me happy. I had a different personality for every relationship in my life, and I trusted no one. To me, everyone was a liar and everyone would eventually leave. Somehow, I had created this picture perfect life for myself on the outside -- like a painting. I had earned a degree, built an exciting career, become an expert in my field and earned a decent paycheck with no help from anyone. My nickname was "Brainiac" among my co-workers. They jokingly called me that because of my ability to soak in information. Somehow, I thought that I had proved something to everyone who had ever left me behind and said I'd never amount to anything. I had gained the respect of friends, family, coworkers and others. I was active in my community, went to church sometimes and would often hear people say: “Young woman, you’re going to go far. You are truly an inspiration to these young people.”
There were even times when I’d hear people brag about my accomplishments or what they thought I was doing. Secretly, I was afraid that one day they would all know it was a lie. I had built my entire life on the image of a woman who never existed. Many people knew me, but no one knew me. How could they? I didn't even know me. I guarded my personal business like a maximum security prison. It was only a matter of time before the bars on the cells were released, and the gates of my prison opened. I was a time bomb. Part II
(Pray the Prayer of Life! Give your life to Jesus!)