Unfortunately, my stepmom's treatment of me made me extremely paranoid for awhile, and temporarily killed my passion for writing. Even though I knew no one but myself had access to my writing anymore, I couldn't trust it. I tried handwriting things down for awhile, but I couldn't write nearly as fast as I could think, and I often worried about someone finding my journals too. I ended up putting all of my old handwritten journal writings through a shredder, then I dumped the shredded pieces in the box of printed-out writings my mom put in the garage. I wasn't sure what to do with the box of writings. I didn't want to throw them away, for fear someone would get curious and dig them up again, and I wasn't about to spend a couple hours shredding them all up. I figured the best thing I could do was keep the box until I had an idea of what to do with it.
I once again lost my go-to stress outlet, and was again easily irritated. I didn't even have a therapist to talk to, because I refused to go to my old therapist again. In an attempt to protect other people from my anger, I isolated myself. At school, I sat alone at lunch, and if people tried to get me to join them, I'd tell them to just go away, and I needed some time to be alone. My mom got phone calls from several worried parents and teachers, whom she reassured that I was ok, and just needed some space. In reality, we all knew I wasn't ok, but we had no idea what to do. We just didn't want people to worry. To keep myself busy, I attended Tae Kwon Do three times a week, and my mom continued to look all over the city for a new therapist I could trust.
As I suffered, I interrogated God through prayer every night. I asked Him what the point of all that suffering was, and what I did, if anything, to deserve it. I began to question God's morality yet again. I really started to believe that God was pretty sadistic, only performing miracles to rope people back into His arms, just so He could hurt them again. I felt myself slipping back into hell, and everyday, I got a little meaner and a little more isolated as I desperately tried to fight off my inner demons with no help whatsoever.
Just when I thought I'd lose that battle, my mom found a new therapist for me to go to. It was actually a therapy group, led by a respected and very experienced older couple, who had spent their lives studying and writing about psychology. They'd seen it all. Best of all, I wouldn't be attending therapy alone. I'd be accompanied by my mom, and everyone else in the therapy group, so I could learn how to trust therapists again with some help. The only downside of this therapy group was that it was well across town from my home.
Every Tuesday evening, Mom and I would make the commute across town to this therapy group, which was at the therapists' house. It was a cozy old house, nestled in a quiet neighborhood with lots of tall trees. There was tea set out on the coffee table for everyone who wanted it, and everyone was very friendly, so I quickly got comfortable. I let my mom do most of the talking for me at first, especially since I didn't know what to say or how much I should say. I didn't want to overshare, even though everyone was encouraged to talk about their deepest feelings.
As much as I learned to trust everyone in the group, as well as the therapists who ran it, I wasn't sure if I was ready to have a one-on-one session with a therapist. I was nervous, and didn't want my privacy to be compromised and used against me again.
I was feeling slightly better, but I was still very irritable and upset. My mom finally sat me down and asked what would make me feel better, because I was clearly in need of help but didn't ask for it. One-on-one therapy? Church? A frozen yogurt? I wasn't sure. I just wanted to be able to trust that I could write and have a private therapist, and not have to worry about all of my deepest secrets and inner feelings coming back to bite me. My mom understood, and told me she'd find me a therapist who was nowhere near my dad's house, or even remotely associated with my stepmom. But in the meantime, the therapists who ran the group therapy, specifically the wife, wanted to do a few one-on-one therapy sessions with me. My mom assured me that she was very safe and very experienced, and had no idea who my stepmom was outside of the stories we told her. So, I agreed to go.
Beyond that, my mom also gave me a memoir written by a man called Victor Marx. She wanted me to read it, because she wanted me to be inspired by someone's real-life story of rising above adversity and coming to Christ. Then, after I finished the book, we could meet Victor Marx in person, and he could give me some personal advice about getting on with life despite its challenges. I desperately needed that inspiration, even though I didn't know that at the time.
