Posted on 11/17/2003 9:19:13 AM PST by scripter
I was 14 the first time it happened. Mary* lived next door. She was two years my junior. Because Mary's parents both worked, they often asked me to watch Mary and her younger brother. One day, Mary found some pornographic magazines in her parents' bedroom.
I understood the magazine's depictions, because I had my first of several sexual encounters when I was ten. But I'd never had sex with another girl before.
As we looked at a photograph of a couple having intercourse, Mary asked, "Have you ever done that?"
"Sure," I said proudly.
"How was it?"
"It was okay."
She turned the page and we saw two women engaged in a sex act. "How about that?" she asked.
I hesitated. "No."
"Wanna try?"
I was scared at first, yet she seemed eager and willing. Our experience together that day became the first of many sexual encounters we shared over the next six months, until my family moved out of state. Becoming involved with Mary awakened in me feelings I never knew I had. Unlike sex with males, I found pleasure in my relationship with Mary. I'd only had sex with males because I believed it was what I had to do. Those beliefs stemmed from scarring events earlier in my childhood.
My parents divorced when I was four, and my sister and I were "awarded" to my mother. My father moved to Georgia (we lived in Connecticut), and I didn't see him again until I was nine. He showed up at my grandmother's door one day and asked if I wanted to come live with him. At that point, I didn't even know where Mom was. She had a drug problem and often disappeared for months, leaving us in Granny's care.
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I feared what others would think of me if they found out about my homosexuality. | |
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I jumped at the chance to live with my dad. He was remarried, so I thought I'd have a stable family life, complete with a new mom. But my "Disneyland family" dream never came true. For the three years I lived with them, my father, whom I discovered was an alcoholic, emotionally and physically abused me, and my grandfather sexually abused me. I tried to tell my stepmother about my grandfather's abuse once the fondling escalated to intercourse.
I was ten, bleeding and barely able to walk, when I went to my stepmother in tears. She took me to her bedroom and "examined" me, then simply said, "There's nothing wrong with you. You're just being a baby. Now go play." Never again did I try to tell anyone. I felt no one would listen.
When I was 12, Mom took me back to live with her. Several years later, after I turned 16, I was sexually abused again, this time by my mom's new husband, my stepfather.
Like most people I know who participate in homosexuality, I always felt different from other girls while growing up. I was a tomboy who had no interest in feminine things. My encounter with Mary was the first time I thought I might be gay. Secretly I was attracted to my female friends, although all through high school I tried to date guys—without success. In my mind, all they wanted was sex. And that was the last thing I wanted.
My next lesbian relationship occurred when I was 19 and in college. Karen and I both were actively involved in the Baptist Student Union (BSU) on our campus. I'd first been introduced to Christ at the age of 15. A lady from a church my family had visited one Sunday came to our house and told me, "If you don't say this prayer and accept Christ, you're going to hell." I made a commitment out of fear rather than out of a true understanding of what it meant to be a Christian. But six years later, shortly before I met Karen, I once again was presented with Christianity. I went to a Christian concert, where I sat contemplating suicide. I was tired of dealing with my homosexual desires and the haunting memories of my sexual abuse. The more I listened to the singer's words, the more peace I felt.
During the invitation, I bowed my head and repeated the sinner's prayer once again. I left feeling as if I had a new lease on life. I became involved in a local church and the BSU. However, while I knew how to "talk the Christian talk," my life didn't truly change. Karen and I soon learned we had lots in common. Before long, I found myself in love with her. Despite my hesitancy, only a few months later we became sexually involved. The relationship made me anxious—after all, we were supposed to be Christians who believed the practice of homosexuality was wrong (Romans 1:24-27). I also feared what others would think if they found out; I was a closet homosexual and wanted to stay that way.
Our relationship was far from perfect. I started drinking alcohol excessively and Karen was needy. I thought I'd be happy with Karen, but I was miserable. Yet I cared for her and couldn't let go. Our dysfunctional relationship lasted almost four years, until we graduated. At that point, I felt buried by my alcoholism, homosexuality, memories of sexual abuse, and low self-esteem. Plus shortly after graduation, Granny died of cancer. She'd been the only mother I'd known. My whole world was falling apart.
Three months after Granny's death, I sat on my bed one evening with a bottle of pills. I felt my only relief would come in death. During the next 30 minutes, I ingested 15 pills. I went into the bathroom, leaned over the sink, and looked into the mirror. My face was as white as a sheet. My eyes were dilated. I suddenly realized I didn't want to die; I just wanted the pain to stop. So I ran to the toilet, stuck my finger down my throat, and flushed most of the pills away.
In desperation, I decided to give church another try a few weeks later. The speaker's words penetrated my heart as he talked about healing and forgiveness. I began to believe I could change, so I went to the local Christian bookstore to find a book that would help me overcome my homosexual desires.
I wasn't sure where to look, so I used the "my friend has this problem and I'm trying to help her" scenario to ask. While the store didn't carry any books, the clerk gave me the name and address of a man in town who ran an ex-gay ministry.
I kept the card for several weeks before I finally worked up the nerve to write this man a letter in which I cried out for help. Soon he called me and we arranged to meet.
I was scared the first time I met Allen. I was 26 and had been struggling for 12 years. I'd never been able to talk to anyone openly about my sexuality. Yet that afternoon, as we sat in his living room, I let it all out. I couldn't believe there finally was someone else who understood.
Before I left, Allen invited me to the support group he held once a month. Through the group, I learned a lot about why I struggled with homosexuality. I started to see how in my lesbian relationships, I'd been searching for the love and acceptance of the mother I felt I never had. Although it took five years, I eventually was able to forgive my mom and build a relationship with her. Amazingly, today we are both Christians and share a loving friendship.
The biggest obstacle to my healing was dealing with the sexual abuse I'd suffered. The two men who abused me made me fear and distrust all other men. It wasn't until I turned 31 that I began accepting that the abuse wasn't my fault. I was an innocent child who had no control over what happened to me. I did what I had to do to survive at the time.
My desires for women began to change when I attended my first ex-gay support group and met David. David also had struggled with homosexuality, and two years earlier had learned he had HIV. From the very first meeting, we connected.
David showed me all men aren't bad. We had fun together. We went for long walks and talked about the future. He listened when I needed to talk and held me when I needed to cry. Most importantly, David was a man of God. His faith was like none I'd known before. He was a leader in his church and his community. He taught me about grace, forgiveness, and healing.
David and I dreamed of making plans for a future together, but those dreams came to a sudden halt on December 18, 1996, when David was killed in a car accident. For a long time, a day didn't pass when I didn't think about David. I felt so thankful for the four years we shared together. I also missed him greatly.
Two years later, while attending the Alcoholics Anonymous group I'd been a part of since getting sober, I met a Christian man named Terry. He also had struggled with alcoholism but had been sober for eight years. I was still dealing with David's death, so I didn't want much to do with Terry, even though he was a great guy. While we tried dating, I'd push him away whenever we started to get too close. I was scared to commit to someone again because I feared I would lose him. After a year of back and forth, we called it quits. But I never stopped thinking about Terry. He was kind and sensitive. And I couldn't help but think about how patient he'd been as I'd shunned him again and again.
With those thoughts in mind, it still took me another two years before I attempted to reestablish communication with Terry. Thankfully, he was willing to speak with me. We began dating and this time it stuck. I was ready to love again. God had healed my heart, showing me that pain was unavoidable. But I could learn from it and go on. Close friends and a loving church community helped me to see this.
After we'd dated for almost a year and began discussing marriage, I knew I had to share my past with Terry. It was still so hard to talk about that I decided to share everything in an e-mail. Terry was okay with it. "What's in the past is past," he said. My openness even caused him to share more about his past with me.
I loved Terry for his honesty and his acceptance of me no matter what. He always said, "There's nothing you can't tell me." We also had great fun together watching movies and Law & Order, our favorite television show. On September 28, 2002, Terry and I married. After all I've been through, there are still days I can't believe I'm married. But Terry is a wonderful, godly man, and I couldn't ask for a better mate. Our marriage has been difficult at times, because I've still had to face temptations from my past. But Terry's a great listener. He's stood beside me as I've prayed for help.
God's always faithful in answering those prayers and strengthening me. He reminds me of how he's delivered me. And he helps me cling to the verses found in 1 Corinthians 6:9-11: "Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor male prostitutes nor homosexual offenders nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God. And that is what some of you were. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and in the Spirit of our God."
* Names of women have been changed.
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Definitely do - it's a success story the pro-homosexual crowd need to read, bump.
"My parent/uncle/neighbor abused me", "My parents were divorced/drug dependant/etc." "I survived and I'm here, I'm queer, get over it".
2+2=REALLY is 4.
Perhaps it's because they would then realize the genetics argument is really bogus?
Yeah, dude, these ex-homo Christians are really known to be hard core leftists! /sarcasm.
Geesh, no wonder conservatives are perceived to be cold hearted @ssholes. Some of them are.
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