Finding Faith

Page 8

“See you around,” she said as she stepped around me and out of the bathroom.
The pastor looked at me again and I saw a flash of anger in his eyes. His lips tightened in disapproval before he stepped away, letting the bathroom door slam. The noise seemed to shake the whole church.
I wasn’t sure what it was, but something was off with that man and his daughter. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew a screwed-up family when I saw one. No matter how perfect the preacher pretended to be, something about him rubbed me the wrong way.
Three
Faith
“Spare the rod, spoil the child.” My dad quoted the Bible as he put his belt back on.
I was sure it was his favorite part of the Good Book since he said it to me every day. It was easy for him since every day he found a reason to take his belt to me.
I clutched the silver cross lying against my chest. I’d had it my entire life. My mom’s mom gave it to me when I was six and I’d never taken it off. It was usually hidden beneath my clothing, and it made me feel safe.
I used to pretend when I was younger that I could hide my soul in the cross so no one could ever take it away from me. My dad spent my childhood instilling in me the dangers of having a tainted soul and having it ripped away by the devil. It was my biggest fear. So when I was afraid that I’d done wrong or that something was going to hurt me, I’d imagine I was pouring my soul into the cross and I’d be guarded by something holy and good. It was how I made it through—my survival mechanism.
Years later, knowing it was impossible to tuck your soul away inside a silver charm, I still held strong to my cross and it still warmed my palm every time I felt like things were too much, when I thought I’d just about met my limit on the things I could take.
Once my dad left the room, I reached down and ran my fingers over my thigh. The thick welts were already starting to form. My skin felt hot to the touch and sore, but getting whipped with Daddy’s belt didn’t hurt anymore—not like it used to anyway. Instead of crying because of the pain, I’d shed the occasional hidden tear because of how degraded I felt.
It started when I was six—he caught me in a lie about eating an extra piece of candy—and it continued over the years. I never lied again from that moment on. It was beaten into me and it remained there. Lying was a sin, and if I lied, I was a sinner and I was going to burn in hell.
I was seventeen and afraid of any and everything, but mostly afraid of getting a spanking from my daddy like some elementary school child. How sad was I? No other girls my age even had to think about it. They were out living their lives, leaning and growing the proper way—by experience.
My home life was anything but exciting, which was why I almost hated going home after school each day. I suppose it was also the reason I’d do stupid things like burst out in tears randomly in the church bathroom. It wasn’t the first time I’d done it, but it was the first I’d been caught.
I couldn’t believe I’d done it again. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t, but I felt like I was disappearing. It was as if every time his belt met my skin, it was erasing me. When I felt that way, the only way I could feel alive was to pinch myself, or better yet, clutch my cross and cry my eyes out in the bathroom.
It didn’t make any sense to me. Crying, feeling any emotion in general, hurt and felt good at the same time. It was like I couldn’t help it. I rarely did it anywhere but my bedroom at night. Only then could I have silent tears on my cheeks without anyone knowing about them.
Everyone had a breakdown every now and again. At least that’s what I’d tell myself. I already felt like I belonged nowhere, that I was different from everyone else. Telling myself everyone else did it, too, made me feel a lot better.
Deep down I knew I had a depression problem and I needed to talk to someone, but what would my mother and father think if I asked to go to a therapist? They’d have me at the altar and have the entire congregation praying over me. Healing was God’s job. That’s what my dad would say to me. So instead of asking for help and risking another beating or having myself embarrassed in front of everyone, I hid it.
I usually locked the door. I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to not double-check the lock before I let myself go, but when the new boy walked in on me my humiliation was on the severe side. I doubted he knew what I was in there doing, but still it wasn’t fun. It’s not like normal people sit around and cry for no reason. I was probably the only person in the world who did something so stupid. Not to mention, the last thing I wanted him to see were the ugly welts from that afternoon’s “lesson” about obeying my mother.