“God is our refuge and our strength; an ever-present help in times of trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way” (Psalm 46:1-2a, NIV).
I hated middle school. It was a terrible thing for a girl with a bad haircut, shifting hormones, and a genuine lack of academic interest to endure. Being forced into an environment with other hormonally-challenged adolescents and teachers who dressed like the Bee Gees seemed barely survivable. I felt like I was in a fog of emotions most of the time, and my academic performance reflected that.
I had many rather curious teachers who made life at least interesting, if not downright scary at times. One teacher, after many failed attempts at band class instruction, actually threw a student head-first into one of the lunchroom garbage cans. Another teacher took the time to make up nicknames for each of us. Strangely enough, he gave me the name Clear Woman. As nothing was very clear to me at all in those middle school years, it somehow felt encouraging—even endearing. Another teacher never actually had a conversation with any of us all year. He just waited for us to shuffle in to our seats, and then he’d commence his lecture until the bell rang. It was in his lab that I first dissected a frog, a pig, and a shark. Someone ate the eyeball of the frog, but Mr. Stone never missed a beat. He just kept on talking! I often found myself staring at the glossy, bald spot on top of his head, intrigued by the reflection cast from the windows. Did I mention I lacked any substantial academic interest? Actually, the entire middle school exercise was a painful endurance.
Socially, I was very interested in school, but I was not one of the popular girls. Gretchen was the most popular girl. Coincidentally, she was also mean. She invited people to slumber parties and waited for the first girl to fall asleep. Then she’d pour warm water over the girl’s hand and make fun of her if she wet the bed. To top it off, she’d tell everyone about it at school on Monday. I wonder why girls liked her. She did have nice clothes (no homemade bell bottoms), and she was really funny—as long as you weren’t on the receiving end of her jokes. She made life miserable for many of us during sixth and seventh grade, and then she moved away. In her wake, other girls filled the “most popular” role, and I was established by eighth grade as a sort of quasi-popular girl.
I was, at least briefly, a member of the middle school drill team, cheerleading squad, volleyball team, and track team. I tried basketball but was a complete failure, never understanding exactly where the key was and too afraid to ask for clarification. My track career ended as soon as it started. I ran one race, got second place, and decided I hated the adrenaline rush leading up to the start, so I quit.
I developed crushes on a few boys… and one teacher. He dressed like Andy Gibb from the Bee Gees, complete with gold chains, chest hair, and a perm. That was actually pretty cool back then. I had that crush until the day he yelled at me in front of the whole class for coloring my entire left hand blue. After that, I was just mortified every time I saw him. I think that’s when my negative self-talk began; I started telling myself that I was really stupid. Of course, when one colors oneself blue, one does have to really wonder.
* * *
I had a crush on a boy named Gator. Gator had the cutest smile in the world. Every time I saw Gator, my insides would get warm, and I would forget how to talk. He once told me I was sexy. Interestingly enough, at the time, I didn’t even know what sex was. I must have said something to my mom about Gator, because I came home one day after school to find a book on my bed about sex. It came complete with diagrams and definitions. I read it cover to cover. It may have been the only book I read in middle school.
It was about that time when my family was asked to leave our church. That was extremely upsetting to me, as by that time, church had provided the one social group that I felt safe in. No one picked on me there, and I had a few friends who were nice. I longed to grow up to be in the high school youth group. There were cute boys there, too, and they all did fun things together like going on ski retreats, singing, and acting out skits—at least it sounded fun, even though I didn’t ski or sing, and I had never been in a skit.
When my parents left that church, we never returned to it. I had been Nazarene. I was saved at church camp and again several times after that. I believed that every time I sinned, I needed to get saved again. I said I believed that God had died for me and that I was forgiven until I would mess up again. I tried to clean up on the outside, never understanding that what Jesus really desired was my whole heart. Why would anyone desire what was on the inside? Who was I anyway? I was a dizzy, silly kid with bad haircuts and homemade clothes who did strange things like coloring her hand blue. I was confused a lot. I thought catch-up work had something to do with ketchup. I misunderstood my teachers, forgot homework, lost things, and didn’t really care about what my teachers would blather on about in front of the class. I had lots of labels for myself at this age, and none of them were very glamorous, intelligent, or pure. I got saved a lot. I sinned a lot.
I entered high school with visions of Grease dancing in my head. I desperately wanted to be Sandy—to be saved by the handsome prince who would drop everything he loved for me. I wanted to be valued—perfect—like Sandy. Unfortunately, I couldn’t sing, and if I was completely honest with myself, deep down I wanted to be a Pink Lady. I related to the Pink Lady side of the tracks. The Sandy lifestyle seemed boring. I was angry at being given minor boundaries, and I was daring—a dangerous combination for any young woman.
My priority list, if I had one, contained items pertaining to boys, clothes, music, and friends. Janet went on to high school with me. We had shared lots of childhood memories together, and in our freshman year of high school, we made more memories—only not so innocent. We had lots of Pink Lady moments—minus the pink coat, which was kind of a bummer. I secretly thought those were really cool.
There wasn’t a lot to do on the weekends. We didn’t have a culturally diverse community or even a cultural repertoire in our small town. Very few kids had hobbies outside school. School was the social web of the day. Kids made up the culture. The fall schedule consisted of football games, parties, and keggers. Then in the winter, it consisted of basketball games, parties, and more keggers. In the spring, we planned for prom, went to prom, went to parties, and camped out at the keggers.
During my freshman year, I met an older boy who took a serious interest in me. At first I wasn’t prepared and didn’t like the attention. Then I realized the social benefits of having an older boyfriend. I started dating him and soon fell head-over-heels for my first love. When things began to get physical, I had a stark memory of the events from my early childhood with my cousin. It was almost like a veil that had been drawn over my eyes was suddenly thrown open. I was vividly aware of what had gone on. I remember telling my first love about these horrible experiences, and fortunately, he was mature enough to encourage me to tell my parents.
Again, talking to my parents didn’t really help. Help came in the form of lots of talking. Everyone talked about the problem for a few months, and then we all hoped it would just get better or go away. Yep, going away is what I became a master of saying and doing. To make my bad memories go away, I shut them out. I practiced telling myself, “When life hurts, just shut it out, and it’ll go away.” That was another lie to add to my growing collection. I sought refuge in all the wrong places, like that country song, “Lookin’ for Love.” That was me. I wanted—craved—healing and protection. Above all, I wanted the one true love of my life. I needed protection, but I didn’t really know it, and I don’t know if I would have allowed it. Protection was not something I would have said out loud that I wanted. If the truth had been told, I don’t know if I would have been able to identify with that emotion or label it. It’s like what every little girl wants—to be held, cared for, cherished… protected. But you don’t say it out loud; it’s just there. Many little girls have it. I did not. This was not through the choice or the intention of my dad and mom, just through the circumstances of the world I was in—a broken world filled with wolves. Because I didn’t have it, my heart ran wild. I chased the things I thought would bring relief, and I liked the thrill of being bad—even with the repercussions. I wanted to see how many bad things I could do to see if anyone really cared enough to stop me.
I hurt so much on the inside. I think I really wanted other people to know how much I hurt over the fact that I felt often, that all I was worth was what I could give or accomplish. I wanted to let people know that it hurt to feel that my only value was in my ability to please a man sexually, too. Why else would a sixteen-year-old race someone down a winding mountainous road driving in the wrong lane? Why else would a sixteen-year-old take a detour, driving all the way to Seattle (an eight-hour drive) with only her best friend and without her parents’ permission? Why else would a sixteen-year-old search at such a young age for her true love so desperately and recklessly?
* * *
I kept dating the potential Mr. Right, and he would turn out to be Mr. Wrong. I dated one boy who actually asked me to marry him the first time we met. He was really rich. I liked the idea of having a swimming pool, a chef (because I only knew how to make canned soup and French toast), a jet, and really nice cars. We dated sporadically throughout high school, and then it more or less fizzled. We met later on in my senior year one night—a night that turned out to be one of the most devastating nights of my life.
I never had a curfew. My parents suggested times that I should be home. They asked me to call if there was a problem, and they trusted me to do that. I was pretty upfront with them about where I was and what I was doing. That awful night, I brought the rich boy home, and while my parents slept, we began to get physical in my basement. He took hold of my neck with his teeth and never let go. I cried out silently, and when it was over, he just looked at me and smiled. He knew I would never tell—and I didn’t.
He was wolf number two.
Father God,
Do you see this girl? Does anybody see her? Her heart is broken. She doesn’t even know which way to turn. Her pain is turning inward. She is shutting you down and shutting you out. She is shutting the door on everyone she loves. She feels this is the only way to control the feelings inside. She is drowning. Can’t you help her—send someone to her?
Set the wolf free. Help him to see the path of destruction he has laid before him. Help him repent. Do not let him be a coward. This is not who you designed. This is a monster.
Why, Lord? Where is this path leading? Amen.
Comfort
“The LORD is my rock, my fortress, and my savior; my God is my rock, in whom I find protection. He is my shield, the power that saves me, and my place of safety” (Psalm 18:2, NLT).
Discussion Questions
1. Do you believe boundaries are important for children? What were your boundaries?
2. Do you have any memories from your childhood—especially your teen years—which really stand out? How have those memories impacted your life and belief system? Did anything happen that you felt you could never tell?
3. Did you ever identify with a main character from a movie growing up? Describe that character.
4. What kinds of self-talk (negative and positive) do you participate in? Read Philippians 4:4-8. How does this impact some of your current patterns?
5. What is the main battle going on within the main character? Do you identify with the emotions of wanting to know if anyone cares deeply enough for you to rescue you? Have you ever tested people intentionally to determine your value?