Something Real.

I've really needed to write today, but nothing has been right in my face, getting my attention as something worth writing about. But, I'm still going to go for it.

I've grown up in the church. As kids, they teach us early to always be the same outside of the church as we are in. Now, we hear more about that, but branching out. Make sure you aren't wearing any masks. Don't be fake. Be something real and honest and true.

I never thought I had a mask on. I'm a pretty good Christian at church, school, and home. And I'm generally the same person everywhere I am.

But what if having a mask on meant more than just that?

Eventually, the more layered of a mask you get, the harder it is to recognize who you are, and maybe even that you are hanging on to one of those masks.

It started October '06. Walls were put up between me and God, but I began to tear them down thinking everything would be fine. And it was for awhile. But soon, I screwed up. First layer of a new mask.

It continued until New Years. I went to church and left feeling like I had really changed. And I did. For a week. Quickly I fell again, harder this time. Second layer.

Layer upon layer, I grew accustomed to my life as it was. People talked about being happy with life and enjoying it. I didn't understand that anymore. I had become so used to who and what I was, that I couldn't imagine anything else.

End of May was the first time I hurt myself. It was only a simple bruise from a rubber band, but it was a start. By this time my mask had grown hard, modeling after my heart. My eyes began to close as I wasn't aware of what was going on around me.

It continued. The bruising. Soon, this past October, I cut. And I loved it. It scared me, this wasn't right, it never did feel right, but it was all I had. By this time, I had given on a God who created everything I see. My mask had completely remodeled my life, into something no one could recognize. I didn't let anyone in, until a month before. Even then, at that time, it didn't help. I just wanted to be left alone.

But then I told my parents. And my friend learned more about what was going on. The mask is cracking down the middle. I try to stop, retreat back to what I know, but nothing works. Nothing can save this life. A little bit of light is shining through. And I'm pleading for everything to stop and pretend I'm not here.

I normally try to say I would never take anything back, it makes us who we are. And some of this, I can see know, has helped me. But the first time I ever did anything to cause harm- I would take that moment back in a heartbeat. But this is what I have in my hands now, it's what I'm left with.

It never made sense- any of it.

"It's not right when you find comfort in harming God's temple."

kadi.

Addictions.

Addictions hurt. Everyone. I used to think I only affected myself. I used to think what happened to me was my own problem and no one else had to be brought in on it. In the last couple months, that thinking has been destroyed.

I bruise. I scratch. I cut. And I thought it only hurt me.

A couple weeks ago, my mom cried as she pulled up my sleeves. She didn't want to do anything the rest of the day. Even go to church. I felt like I had ruined her life. It was my fault. All of my pain, regrets, shame from these past 14 months felt like they were suddenly thrust upon her, with me scrambling to pick up the pieces and try to keep them to myself. I don't want anyone to know what I know.

Last Thursday, I was on the bus with my school, making the eight hour trip home from North Carolina. A week with my school, and I didn't care that I had made it almost 40 days without doing anything, I didn't care. I had a few rubber bands on my wrist, and by the end of the night, I had a bruise running down the middle. My friend knows what I do. He sat down next to me, pleading with me to stop. He cried. Something I'd never seen from him, emotions I knew he had, and knew how strong, but it became real right then. I'm hurting him.

And I hurt God. My God.

"And I wonder what You think when You're staring down at me."

I never meant for it to be like this
I never wanted her to blame You
I never wanted her to be so angry

I saw her tears and knew right then
I knew my burden was placed on her
I promise, I never meant for her to feel this pain

I'm sorry I hurt you so bad
Just know, none of it was ever your fault
None of it was ever because of you.

kadi.

Honesty and Truth and Love.

I'm a teenage girl, 15. Glance at me and you'll see a normal kid, probably rude and doesn't care about others. Probably one of those teenyboppers that drool over every guy and doesn't have a brain that you know of.

That's what most people think. That's how most people would view us. Like this guy I met today.

I went with my mom to Hallmark to get Christmas ornaments. We go every year, she gets us (me and my brothers) an ornament and when we move out, we'll take them with us. But this year, I was hoping to make mine mean a bit more.

I support some amazing organizations. One of the newer ones being (Product)RED. I heard that they were working with Hallmark and to carry some stuff in the store. I was hoping one of the ornaments would be a (Product)RED. Sure enough, there was one. Red heart that says (inspi)RED.

This guy that worked there had talked to me and my mom while we were looking at the stuff. Cool guy, funny. He scanned in our items when we were checking out.

"Why did you choose this ornament? Was it because it's a heart?"

You see, he saw me. Figured that since I'm a teenage girl, I must like anything pink or red and a heart.

Nope. Not exactly.

"No. I actually support Product(RED) and heard that you guys were working with them."

"Oh. Most people come in and don't even know about that."

Sad. People "support" organizations and don't even know what they are about. I know a few people that see me wearing To Write Love on Her Arms shirts and ask me how to buy them, without even knowing the story behind it and what they believe in. But they see the shirt. And learn you can get the same one in purple. It looks cute. They have to get it...

I don't act like a lot of people I come in contact with. I ask why. How. I see someone on the side of the street and want to run up and hug them, let them know people still know how to love. I'll be out with my dad when he makes fun of someone. I want to sit down with that person and explain that not everyone is like that. Not everyone is blind and uncaring.

I love people and truly want them to know that. I don't go around and throw that word about. Love. But, instead, I believe that love is really the movement. Love changes things. It gives hope and freedom. It forgives. Love is always there, never changing, never failing. True love doesn't give up on you just when you need someone.

That's who I am. Not some crazy girl that is obessessed with pink and hearts and name brand purses and doesn't see anything else but that. It's great to like pink and hearts and purses, but when that's all you see, there's a problem. When you only see a celebrity and want to be just like them. When you only see that cute guy and don't care that he bullies the new kid or someone who can't connect with anyone else. Like those purses. Like the anything pink. Like all of that. But also work to see change in yourself and in others. Don't be what the world expects you to be. Prove them wrong and show them that you know how to think and act and live and go against everything this world teaches us. Show them that you believe in so much more. Show them that you care about the person who doesn't shop at American Eagle and get a new car for their sixteenth birthday. Be the change everyone wants to see, but few know how to carry out.

Don't let them stereotype you. Let them know there is still honesty and truth and love in this life we find ourselves in.

kadi.

Thanksgiving, Of Course.

Today is Thanksgiving. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes. Seeing family you won't see again for maybe a year, or Christmas if you're really close knit. Watch your favorite football team. Then sleep. Wake, and eat more.

I try to think though, of something I'm thankful for other than "Oh. This year I'm so thankful for all of you- my friends and family. You're all so wonderful." But this year, I haven't known exactly what I'm thankful for. Not up until now.

I have a friend. She met someone while she was overseas. My friend was given the opportunity to show Jesus to this girl and explain of the sacrifice He made. She accepted Jesus. She loved Jesus. "My Isa."

Things progressessed for the girl. Her mom found her Bible that my friend had given her and burned it. She kicked the girl out of the house and basically said she was no longer part of the family. So, the girl found a place with a friend. Her mother found her. "Get this girl out of her house." No mention of any 'daughter'.

Time went by as her mother kidnapped her. Beating her and locking her up for days. But she made it out and found my friend.

As my friend had to leave to come back home, she wanted to ask the girl one thing.

"If you have known you'd go through this much trouble, would you still have accepted Jesus?"

The girl hesitated, answering after a moment.

"I'm so sad... I am so sad because I can't live inside my house and I can't live inside my family. But I'm so happy because I can live inside my Isa."

My Jesus.

In the past year, since last Thanksgiving, I feel like I've done so much. I've done so much that I'm surprise Jesus still looks on my with a caring and forgiving heart.

Doubts. Blame. Giving up on Him. To where I set aside everything I knew. In the mornings, like a robot, I'd read my Bible. Go through the devotional. Then I'd become aware of the school day coming up. Hesitantly I'd lay my Bible at my feet and reach over for the scissors. Slowly, I'd release what I couldn't verbalize. I'd release the pain, regrets, shame, guilt, that only I knew.

But you know what? My Jesus doesn't mind. He loves me and wants to see me live. My Isa offers what I need to heal a wound deep enough that no one else can reach.

My Isa. He's saved me. He loves me. And He refuses to leave me, no matter how many times I come back from worship and plead with Him to leave me alone. He's there. Just like always, just like when nothing was wrong.

kadi.

On My Shoulders.

It's Wednesday. My mom knew as of last night. My dad knew earlier today.

I woke up this morning, hoping that after last night, I'd be able to avoid any conversations and make it off to school still feeling okay. When my mom came into my room near tears, I realized that wouldn't happen.

She rolled up my sleeves. Looked for the faded scars.

She asked why. Why. Why.

"I'm so upset, so angry with God right now for letting you go through something like this."

No. If I've learned anything this past year, it'd be that it's not God. He's the one keeping me alive. He's the reason why I can look at my wrists and still believe in rescue and a better ending.

I never meant for anyone to know. Caleb. Jessie. My youth pastor. My parents. I realized that I brought this upon myself. This pain, guilt, shame. These regrets. And I never wanted anyone to ever have to carry that on their shoulders. I wanted it to stay on mine. No one else should have been burdened. It's not their fault. I didn't do this to myself because of them. I never have.

Things are changing. Rapidly, with me losing my way. My life isn't anything like what it was just 24 hours ago. But, this is it. This is what I've been given.

kadi.

Trash. Just, Trash.

Tonight was good. To some extent. Compared to other nights, it was good. Compared to what tomorrow night is promising itself to be, it's great. It was.

I went out with the family to Rooster's. Amazing place. Amazing chicken fingers.

...anyway. Somehow we got on the topic of some things some people who prepare the food (or anyone, for that matter) at restaurants do. My mom mentioned this one guy who spit on a customer's hamburger after it was sent back because it wasn't fully cooked. Not the right thing to do, I'll admit.

"Why would someone do something like that...?" my brother asked. He tends to be the more questioning and sensitive person. He can't understand why some people do the things they do.

"Ian, people like that are trash. That's it, all there is to it. Just trash." my dad replied, without hesitation.

Immediately I stop. I don't say anything. But, I look at my mom hoping she'd say something to him to quiet down, since she can catch on sometimes when I get upset when my dad says something. She doesn't notice, and instead, nods along.

By this time, I want to go home. Sometimes I wonder why I try to avoid my dad. Well. Here it is.

"They're just trash."

I don't know. Maybe it's wrong to think like I do, but I absolutely cannot agree with that. I've done some things that aren't the best. Some things that are wrong. Am I trash? I've been mean to others before. Am I trash? I was close to asking my dad what he thinks of a certain kind of people, just to see what he would say. Since, well, people would probably label me as one of those people. I expected him to say something along the lines of "they're trash."

Honestly, we should all be labeled that. Trash. Trash. Trash. Lying, cheating, thieving cowards. Destined for death because of our choices. But, you know what? I believe in a God that created everyone of us individually. He created us so He could love us. When He sees us, He sees His masterpieces, carefully molded and shaped into something intricate and beautiful- something meant to reflect everything He is. He doesn't see trash. It doesn't matter if you're studying to be a pastor or if you're currently serving life in prison or on death row for murder. It just doesn't matter. God doesn't see trash. He sees something worth more than anything else He's created. He sees something worth twice as much as everything else that is His. He sees us. Even in our failures. He sees His masterpiece.

No trash.

In His eyes, nothing is known to be trash. Not even that guy who spit on his customer's hamburger.

Grace.

kadi.

Tuesday.

Today is Saturday. Tomorrow, Sunday. That much closer to Tuesday. Eh.

Y'see, I have "issues" (as a friend of mine likes to say). But I keep quiet and don't say much. No one knows the whole story. At least for right now. My youth pastor knows just the "what" not "why", "when"... He insists on me telling my parents. Basically, if I want to go to Africa this summer with the youth group, that's what I'm going to have to do.

So, I decided. Tuesday. My dad will be in Kentucky, so I don't have to tell him just then. Only my mom. Dad'll get mad. He will. A year ago, he thought I was depressed and got mad saying something along the lines of "What kind of witness is that? Christians shouldn't be depressed." Way to build me up, there.

But, my mom will know by the time Tuesday comes to an end. I'll show her the faded scars. I'll explain that that scratch on my right wrist wasn't an accident, but, instead, something I did on purpose. I'll lay it all out. I'll pull up my sleeves and tell her of how I haven't been the same this past year. I'll tell her why I was so down on my birthday- a day one should be happy and joyous. Nothing will be hidden as my layered mask begins to crack down the middle and the first ray of light comes through, with me pleading to be left alone.

Then my youth pastor will ask me if I said anything yet. "Yes." Hesitant. But I'll say it. And for once in my life, I'll speak the truth. Not tip toeing around what I know life to be and sugar coating it all for everyong looking in, pretending it's all just like a merry fairy tale.

When he first asked me about it, I told him I tried saying something once already, but backed down. "Why?" My mom said something. Something like "I trust you. I don't need to worry about you." So, how could I tell her then? I told him that. Said she trusts me and I couldn't tell her. He said maybe, in the end, they'll trust me more, having told them and all. For a second, hope. Then, reality. Would they really? Honestly, how could they trust me when I've kept something secret for so long, when I've neglected to tell them what was really going on when they repeatedly asked me what's wrong? Maybe they will. If I were them, though, I'd have a heck of a time trusting someone then.

So, here it is. My last few days carrying this cross by myself, willingly. And who knows, maybe it's also my last few days not being hyped up on meds.

kadi