Something
that I have learned being a Hispanic, raised in
Miami, is
that people love stories. They love
to tell them and they love to hear
them. I have to admit, my husband, Leonard, is the best storyteller I have ever
met in my entire life. He has this incredible ability to tell a story,
whether fact or fiction, with impeccable detail and imagery that usually leaves
a person begging for more. The only problem is, after
knowing my husband for only six short years I have heard every…single…one of his stories at least twenty times each. And, oh
how I wish that were an exaggeration. But in his defense, there
are a few stories that I wish I could hear him repeat over and over again for
the rest of my life. These are usually the stories that focus on salvation,
grace and the immense power of the gospel. Those key concepts are the
focus of my story and it is a
story that I hope my husband and my children wish and hope that I too would share with
them for the
rest of my life.
From as far back as I can
remember I have always been a “daddy’s girl”; therefore it would come as no
surprise that when my father suffered a brain aneurism and then a stroke it
would change our lives forever. My father survived his aneurism, but soon had
to undergo the process of relearning everyday functions, such as walking,
talking, reading and writing. His personality was so drastically different to
the point that even his laugh had changed. He had become this person that
barely resembled the man I grew to know and love. Therefore as my father spent
the next few years adjusting to his new life, I spent those same years trying
to figure out how to get by without the deep relationship I was longing to have
with him.
Even though my family and I
were actively involved in a local Catholic Church I found myself drifting
further and further away from God. As more and more time had passed I became
bitter and angry with Him as I blamed Him for all that had happened. I began to
search for companionship in all the wrong places. I dated as many guys as I
possibly could and shut my parents out of my life as much as possible. By the
age of fourteen, I had gotten into my first what I would have considered back
them to be a “serious relationship” and became sexually active. It was around this
time that I began to experience various symptoms of depression. I began to eat
less, I continuously felt fatigued, I was constantly getting headaches and
having digestive problems, I would sleep excessively, I always wanted to be
left alone, and I was overwhelmingly consumed with suicidal thoughts.
The depression began as sadness
and soon grew to grief until it reached utter despair. I couldn’t explain the
source because most days I didn’t know where it came from. I remember feeling
so consumed with anger and sadness that all I could do was release the pain in
any way possible. It was around this time that I began to self-mutilate. It
started off small, as simple scratch marks on my arms, but would eventually
lead to hundreds of cuts that would cover my legs, arms and torso.
It was in the middle of my
freshman year of high school when my mother took me to my first visit with a
psychiatrist. Within a week, I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress
disorder and severe anxiety. And just a few weeks later my first “serious
relationship” ended when my boyfriend decided to break things off with me. Just
a few weeks later, I attempted suicide. I consumed over fifty capsules of
Tylenol mixed with alcohol and just about any other medication I could find in
my parents medicine cabinet. As I rested in a hospital bed later that evening I
overheard the doctor tell my parents that after everything I consumed that
evening there was no reason why I should still be alive. And in my bitterness
and rage I found myself asking “Why?! Why am I still alive?!” I then spent the
next two weeks in the psychiatric ward at the local children’s hospital where I
was diagnosed with clinical depression and was quickly put on medication and
given nothing more than mere coping mechanisms.
Upon returning to school the
anxiety began to set in to the point where I could not get through a day
without having several panic attacks. Each one began to feel more unbearable
than the last. It felt as if someone had cut off my ability to breathe and I
was left gasping for just the smallest amount of air. I was told that the
medications were meant to help alleviate those feelings, but most days they
only increased the symptoms. Needless to say, my depression only worsened as I
began to realize that no one could sympathize with the “psycho girl,” which is
what I soon became known as at school. So I searched again for love, but yet
again in all the wrong places.
I became more sexually active
than I was before and dated several guys, but with each let down I spiraled
deeper and deeper into hopelessness. I began taking razor blades to school so
that I could cut myself in between classes and I would often come to class with
blood seeping through my clothing. About three months after my first suicide
attempt, I attempted suicide again when I tried to cut my heart out with a
razor blade. It was not long after this that I was admitted yet again to the
psychiatric ward. At this point I was more sad than angry. I could not
understand why this darkness was not lifting and I felt like no one could see,
feel or understand this immense pain. I was longing for attention and desperate
for love.
By the end of freshman year I
had started dating someone new. This relationship would last four and a half
years and although it was a good relationship, it still did not fill the void
of loneliness. For the last three years of high school I still struggled with
self-mutilation and depression and I carried these things with me into my
college years. In my sophomore year of college my boyfriend ended our
relationship and it was almost as if I had gone back to being that lost and
broken little fourteen-year-old girl again. The depression and anxiety came
back with a vengeance. I was more angry and bitter than I had ever been before.
So of course, yet again, I went looking for love in all the wrong places. I
dated as many men as I could and just bounced from one relationship to the next
hoping to fill the void that so desperately needed to be filled.
At the age of nineteen I met a
man who was different from the rest. His name was Leonard. We met at a college
party and became friends instantly. At that point in time, Leonard had only
been a Christian for one year, but he was visibly and passionately on fire for
the Lord. We began dating and within a few weeks I began attending church with
him. Although I was receptive to what I was hearing and learning from the
pastor I was not ready to change my lifestyle. I was consumed by my fleshly
habits and was afraid to drift away from those parts of my life that had become
a source of comfort. I continued to self-mutilate and my depression continued
to manifest itself through my words and actions. At a time when most people
would have run away out of fear, disgust or confusion, Leonard stayed. Not only
did he stay, but as I would find out years later he spent almost every day
those first few months of knowing me praying for me and for my salvation. This
is why I can say that in that time of helplessness, Leonard was the best
earthly representation of Christ that I could have ever encountered.
I spent the next month and a
half struggling to let go of my sin. My self-mutilation had become a source of
pleasure and relief, yet every time I sat through a sermon I was burdened by
the pangs of conviction. I knew that I needed to let go of those things and put
my faith in something steady and strong. It only took two months for the Lord
to get a hold of me and shake my heart to the point of confession and
repentance. I do not know the exact moment that I was “saved” or the exact time
that I put my faith in the Lord, but I do remember the day that I was baptized.
When the pastor put me under the water and recited these words: “Buried with Him
in baptism, and raised to walk in newness of life.” On that day, something
inside of me changed and the Lord began to do a miraculous work in me. By his
grace, I spent the next two years consuming and learning from His Word. I
became actively involved in our church and was given the opportunity to
minister to children and their families. I fell in love with and married the
amazing man who demonstrated Christ-likeness to me when most people were too
afraid to even try. And I learned how to bow down in reverence to the God who
extended his grace and mercy when I least deserved it. I
struggled with depression, anxiety and self-mutilation for seven years, but
that is nothing compared to the eternity I will spend with my precious Lord and
Savior.
1
John 5:9-13 says, “If we receive the testimony of men, the testimony of God is
greater, for this is the testimony of God that he has borne concerning his Son.
Whoever believes in the Son of God has the testimony in himself. Whoever does
not believe God has made him a liar, because he has not believed in the
testimony that God has borne concerning his Son. And this is the testimony,
that God gave us eternal life, and this life is in his Son. Whoever has the Son
has life; whoever does not have the Son of God does not have life. I write
these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God that you may know
that you have eternal life.”
This
is the message of my testimony, that through the Son of God I have
been given life. We, who were once dead in our sins, can
come before the throne of grace in complete humility and receive forgiveness;
therefore it
is on the saving work of Christ that my story is built.
The
impact of my story has nothing to do with anything that I have done, but
everything to do with what God has done through His work on the cross.
Therefore my testimony is not merely my story; it is ultimately God’s story. My
story is all about Him. He creates.
He restores. He redeems. He is the
story!
Over
the years there have been several times when I have heard the words of that
doctor ring in my ear, “There is no reason why she should still be alive.” I
understand now why I lived and I believe that part of that reason is happening
right now, in this very moment. I believe that I lived in order that I might
share my story with all who are willing to hear in order to bring glory and
honor to the One who saved me and gave me new life.
