At fourteen I started getting sick a lot. My mother said it was just nerves and I needed to learn how to deal with everyday life. Regardless, by the age of fifteen, I was vomiting every morning and sometimes throughout the entire day. I went to local doctors who sent me to specialists who sent me to more doctors and more specialists. I was finally diagnosed with chronic ovarian cysts, endometriosis, an esophageal hernia, and acute acid reflux disease. Thank God! There was something wrong with me that you could publicly ask for prayer without being ashamed. They were real diseases that were okay to have.
I Hated Being Me
I went on numerous medications for all of the above diagnoses, but none of them seemed to work for very long. They decided to prescribe "the pill” to keep the cysts down and I was mortified. The pill was for people who were active and I was not. I hated taking the meds and when they didn’t seem to work I would sometimes quit and just hide them. The pain would get so intense I would beg my mother to pray for God to take me. I hated the diseases, I hated my life, I hated everything. But most of all I hated being me. I would pray, "Please Lord, let me be anyone but me."
I eventually learned to cope with the pain and went back to school on mostly pain killers. The office kept a paper sack for when I hyper ventilated, and smelling salts for when I passed out.
I was finally a senior and graduated high school only to go on to college. I hated school and college was the last place I wanted to be. I begged my parents to let me quit, and once my grades and attendance came in, they agreed. I never finished anything I started so I guess they weren't too surprised that I wanted to drop out.
I had been working for a day care while I was in high school and continued to do so until one day I went home for lunch, took an overdose of pills and lay down to die. But something went terribly wrong and I woke up sick and unable to speak. I crawled to the dining room where I passed out. My cousin came by some time later. When there was no answer and she saw my car in the driveway, she let herself in. She called 911, and of course they arrive just in time to revive me. Once again I was looking at the tube and charcoal treatment.
I had to stay in the hospital longer this time because of the damage I had done to my stomach lining. My best friend stayed with me while my fiancé partied in Florida and my mother convinced the staff it was an accident. She succeeded and I would not have to go to the nut house this time.
My Best Friend
I spent a lot of time with "Mama Sylvia" who had suffered from several heart attacks and had to have a pacemaker and defibrillator. She laughed about all the artificial parts they put in her body. She was always in pain but had a great sense of humor. We got along great and she was always there for me. I never had to explain anything to her and she always accepted me just as I was. I moved in with her so if something happened she would not be alone. Everything seemed great for once. I had a loving fiancé and was living with my best friend.
I was scheduled to spend the weekend with my parents and "Mama Sylvia" said she would be fine and we would talk when I got back. I would never go back.
On March 31, 1992, "Mama Sylvia" died. We buried her on April 2.
I moved back home and fell into a deep depression. On one occasion, I let my emotions get the better of me, and after leaving my fiancés house in tears, I lost control of my car, crossed the center line and hit an elderly couple head on. They were okay, but I had a broken neck, broken collar bone, broken ankle, two broken ribs, and a fractured tailbone. The recovery was long, painful, and depressing.
A year later my engagement fell apart and I would not soon recover, for more reasons than one. I had always vowed to wait for marriage, but he convinced me he loved me, and since we were already getting married, why wait? I loved him and I wanted something to make me happy. I thought he was it, so I did not wait. I just knew that since I had given myself to him our relationship was a done deal. We would be together forever. I would be so wrong.
Damaged Goods
Now, he was gone and I was damaged goods. What difference did it make?
I ended up getting engaged a total of eleven times and although "Yes" was easy, the "I do" was a little harder to commit to. I was a depressed, diseased, damaged woman, and who would want me?
After my last engagement fell through, I swore off men. I was ready to be alone and God had won. I was not going to be happy, and obviously I was looking in the wrong place anyway. That was just fine with me, I had done enough damage.
Then my best friend decided she knew this guy that I just had to meet. She was relentless about it and finally I agreed.
"Fine, I will meet him, hate him, and never have to see him again!"
